


People of the Ice

by Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: The Fëanorians find that their kin who crossed the Ice have been utterly changed. Fingon is utterly changed. All of them are.This Fingon-centric story is an exploration of Fingolfin's host and the impact of the Grinding Ice on who they became as a people once they arrived to MIddle Earth. They are often portrayed as not being changed much by the Helcaraxë. I am firmly of the camp that what we read in the Silmarillion is Pengolodh's sanitized version, as is common in many tales told as epic histories. This story presents a different interpretation, exploring the darker edges of elven psyche that, for me, would be more prevalent.In attempt to reconcile some gaps between canon and the length of time it takes Fingon to go out and rescue Maedhros this story explores why that time elapsed. Get ready for a not so nice Fingon, hardened by the many losses of his People and the betrayal Maedhros.This story will be updated on a monthly basis and will not be too many chapters





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I am never consistent with use of father or mother names. I tend to go with names and nicknames that sound best. It's been hard to get back into fic writing. I am hoping this story will spark my muse and get me back to unfinished stories.

 

 

Makalaurë watched as Nolofinwë, Lalwen, Findekáno, Findaráto, and some of Nolofinwë’s other Lords and Ladies approached them on foot. This was Makalaurë’s first glimpse of his kin, at least they had once been kin in better times. Now they were unrecognizable, so Curufinwë had warned him, though Makalaurë had believed his brother exaggerated. He had not. Makalaurë chided himself. Thirty years to cross the Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice, a place that needed no evil overlord to kill, maim, and torture. Makalaurë dismounted his horse. It would not be wise to peer down at Nolofinwë from atop a mount that was descended from the horses that Fëanáro’s host had taken from his uncle. At first Makalaurë had thought riding the horse would be message enough about his kingship, a show of his strength, but seeing Nolofinwë, Lalwen, and his cousins, made Makalaurë regret the choice. He had been too influenced by his brothers, by his own pride. Makalaurë smiled bitterly, thinking to himself, _Father would be proud_.

 

The first meeting of the Noldorin King and Nolofinwë’s host was held on neutral ground, between the camps. Too much distrust and discord lay between them for any other setting to work. It was on the western edge of the lake, on the flatland that gave way to the foothills of the Mountains of Mithrim. Not too long a trek for the Nolofinwion host that did not have horses, though that mattered little, for Nolofinwë’s host was used to walking, to marching, had learned to live and be a people that were on the move. Makalaurë could not imagine what that would do to a people and yet what he saw on the faces of those he had once laughed with, had named friend and cousin, disturbed him. And when he saw him, Findekáno, who had been like a brother to him, and dearest to Maitimo, Makalaurë fought the urge to look away. Findekáno, like all of them was gaunt, but there was something more disturbing about him that sent shivers down Makalaurë’s spine. Hate. Raw hate. Makalaurë had never known Findekáno to hate, but with every step Findekáno took towards the group, Makalaurë could see how his body was tense, how his eyes glowed with fierceness, and the way his hands were balled up in fists at his side, near his sword.

 

When Nolofinwë’s group halted, Findekáno’s eyes settled upon Makalaurë and scanned the remainder, inspecting the group. Fëanáro was dead. This much they knew. Of course, Findekáno was looking for Maitimo, looking for the source of his deepest betrayal, but he would not find him. Findekáno wore his emotions openly and what Makalaurë saw in him did not bode well for peace between them. Makalaurë thus decided, rather impulsively, that he needed to speak to Findekáno privately before sharing words with all of them, protocol be damned! Makalaurë called out to Findekáno, surprising his brothers: “I would like to speak with you Findekáno. Please…for a moment.”

 

Findekáno flinched, hearing Makalaurë’s words directed at him. It took a great deal of strength to keep himself from retaliating physically.

 

Makalaurë observed how Findekáno’s jaw tightened, how his eyes narrowed and shoulders hunched forward. He was sinewy now, a victim the long famine endured during the crossing of the Grinding Ice, but there was yet power, a power that Makalaurë had never seen in anyone. Indeed, Nolofinwë’s host seemed to possess whatever strange aura the Ice gave them. It was disconcerting.

 

Findekáno stepped in Makalaurë’s direction, Nolofinwë kept himself a safe distance, but not so far he could not hold his son back if Findekáno broke, for he recognized that Findekáno was riding a dangerous edge. “Say what you must in front of my kin,” Findekáno whispered, afraid if he spoke his voice would echo across the lake.

 

Makalaurë cast a weary glance to the group, “It would be better said to you in private, only a moment.” Makalaurë could hear his brothers begin to rumble behind him but a quick flick of his hand and his brothers quieted. They knew that Findekáno would need to be dealt with first, understood Makalaurë’s quick decision, but they cared for it not.

 

Findekáno turned away from Makalaurë and marched back towards his father’s group. Findaráto was furthest way, his face unreadable, but yet grim, his fairness no longer a happy sight. Nolofinwë laid his hand on Findekáno’s shoulder, gently halting his step. “You can always share with us what he has told you,” Nolofinwë’s voice dropped so only Findekáno could hear. “I do not think you want what he has to share with you spoken aloud. Think on it Findekáno,” Nolofinwë reminded his eldest that his and Maitimo’s relationship was not a widely shared story.

 

Findekáno turned to look back at Makalaurë who had moved forward, the rest of the brothers were at a safe distance, obviously annoyed by his insistence. Of course, it was about Maitimo. Nolofinwë had asked after him when first they met with Curufinwë who had come to tell Nolofinwë that Fëanáro had died. When Nolofinwë had asked after the other brothers and if Nelyafinwë was now king, Curufinwë had simply smiled, answering that it was not his place to speak for the King, and so he would allow the King to speak for himself. At that brief meeting Curufinwë had informed the Noldor host that they could set up in the southern part of the lake and do what they would with the buildings left behind by Fëanáro’s host. They had long before began building another settlement north of the lake and it was here that Fëanáro’s host had moved once they had word that Nolofinwë’s host had crossed the ice.

 

Findekáno nodded curtly. Nolofinwë urged him on with a glance. Findekáno turned and slowly walked towards Makalaurë, his eyes taking in all his surroundings, accounting for where on their bodies Fëanáro’s sons carried weapons, the placement of their hands, the rhythm of their breath, the twitch of their nostrils. Though Findekáno had the power to open himself up and search for Maitimo’s fëa, the hate that filled him, no longer allowed such connection. It had been broken, so Findekáno believed. Findekáno halted a few steps from his cousin, allowing his cold, blue eyes to settle on Makalaurë. Findekáno looked down his nose at Makalaurë and though he wore no crown he had guessed Makalaurë was now their leader. That only meant one thing…

 

Makalaurë spoke quietly but formally to Findekáno, though Makalaurë silently mourned for it seemed the Findekáno he had known in Aman was gone, lost to the ice. This person in front of him was not an elf. Makalaurë spoke, “Maitimo was taken by Moringotto. We know not whether he lives.”

 

Findekáno drew back, but he did not take his eyes off of Makalaurë. A feeling stirred in his heart, or so he thought, but Findekáno allowed his hardened and bitter heart to reclaim whatever feelings stirred there. “We have lost many,” Findekáno replied shortly. “Some have no kin to grieve for them for entire families were lost, but thankfully your father and Nelyafinwë have all of you to grieve for them.” At that Findekáno allowed his eyes to linger on each of the brothers, daring them to come for him. He hungered for their blood, their healthy scent filling his nose, filling him with rage.

 

Makalaurë wanted to tell Findekáno, to reveal to him that Nelyo had never abandoned him, at least not easily. He should have said to Findekáno: _You should know he turned away, could not, did not set fire to the ships. He implored father to return for you. He named you. He tried to keep us from torching the boats, but as soon as he stilled one of our arms, another put fire to the wood. He did not abandon you_. But he said nothing. This was not the time for it. Makalaurë had to consider the political challenges of his own claim to Kingship. It was a complicated time, even within his own host.  Makalaurë cast his eyes to the ground instead.

 

Findekáno’s nose flared. His heart was ice and he used the cold to still the hand that desired to take his sword and permanently quiet Makalaurë who in that moment revealed his weakness. “Then the lot of you have lost much for it seems he was the last bit of honor that survived your father’s host,” Findekáno hissed.

 

Makalaurë flinched, of course Findekáno would indict him. He too burned the boats. And why he did it, why he acted against the shouting within him that said “don't’ do it,” that ached as the fires burned, he could not say. They were the worse for not having Maitimo around.

 

Findekáno turned away from Makalaurë unexpectedly, announcing to his father, “Makalaurë is King. Nelyafinwë is lost.” Walking away, without turning to look at Makalaurë, Findekáno spat out, “It is him you should deal with father,” Findekáno pointed at Makalaurë. Findaráto moved to meet Findekáno and bring him back to their group lest Findekáno turn and unleash his rightful anger on Makalaurë.

 

Tyelkormo made a growling sound behind Makalaurë and Curufinwë spoke up, the haughtiness of his voice like a nail grating on the surface, “Findekáno should show deference to his King.”

 

Findekáno spun around enraged and Findaráto laughed aloud. Nolofinwë spat out a curse, “Do not mistake us for beggars. With one word, I can unleash my host upon your small contingent and we shall devour you and fill our bellies with your flesh. We are not the people you left behind.”

 

Carnistir’s eyes widened with disbelief. Tyelko quieted.

 

Nolofinwë walked towards Curufinwë, taking time to look upon each of his dead brother’s sons: “We are….” Nolofinwë glanced taking in the immensity of Endórë, “hungry.”

 

Makalaurë took a step back. He had not expected this. He needed to act quick. “Forgive us Nolofinwë,” Makalaurë dared not yet name him uncle. “We are fools to forget your peoples’ needs,” Curufinwë shot a look at Makalaurë but Carnistir shot Curufinwë a glance that said, _dare not utter a word_.

 

“What provisions will you share?” Nolofinwë quickly questioned, not forgetting his people were in need.

 

“We have food that shall last you for a time.”

 

“Yes,” Nolofinwë agreed, “you have left us some, but what of the horses you stole?” Nolofinwë looked around Makalaurë to the horse that stood riderless next to his brothers.

 

Makalaurë had to bite his tongue. “We shall give you one-third of our herd. I believe that shall recompense the numbers from your herd that we took.”

 

It was now Tyelkormo’s turn to speak up. “That is outrageous! We cannot simply surrender the animals we have brought to flourish in these wild lands!!”

 

Nolofinwë turned to look at Tyelkormo. “Then we shall kill the exact number of horses you took. We need food and horse meat is hardy and shall last us the winter,” Nolofinwë countered sharing an icy grin with his nephew.

 

Tyelkormo was horrified. Who was this person standing before him? Nolofinwë was mad, absolutely mad! He looked to the rest of the elves who accompanied Nolofinwë. All of them had the same feral look about them. Whatever they endured had utterly changed them. Tyelkormo saw them and feared them.

 

Makalaurë once more felt the earth shifting beneath him. “Of course not Nolofinwë, we shall bring one-third of our herd to you with enough feed to last for a few months. The hunting is plentiful if managed well. You will find the fields near your settlement to be generous. We did not harvest those grains. They await your peoples’ industry.”

 

Nolofinwë turned to look at the fields in the distance, his look softening, as if he was remembering something from the person, from the life that had long been abandoned. “You do well to offer this,” Nolofinwë spoke, turning his attention back to Makalaurë. Nolofinwë did not forget who Makalaurë was, who he had been as a child, as friend to Findekáno, but that had been then, before the ice.

 

Nolofinwë and Makalaurë spoke like this for some time, arrangements were made, but nothing was signed, no pledge made. It didn’t need to be. The very lives of the elves depended on it.

 

All the while Findekáno watched and heard, standing so very still as he had, as they all had learned to do on the ice, finding that stillness and quiet that would allow them to feel, to hear the subtle changes in the ice beneath him, but instead of the groaning or popping sound of ice he felt the earth beneath him, felt and heard its vigor and this gave him strength. His father made him proud. He did not bow down to the treacherous sons of Fëanáro. He was _their_ King and he saw it on their faces, their doubt, their fears, but most of all that they were rudderless without their father, without Maitimo.

 

Later Findekáno would come to see that Makalaurë was stronger than he appeared, led more firmly than Findekáno cared to admit, but in this moment watching them quell filled Findekáno with a crooked joy, not a happiness for that seemed a lost story. Nolofinwë’s host had lost too many to the ice: sons, daughter, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers. Too many. But all the names were known, woven into the lamentation the Noldor sang as they crossed the ice, a lamentation that grew long. The dead would not be forgotten.

 

Carnistir leaned over to whisper to Tyelkormo who was looking upon the faces of those he had known with wide-eyed disbelief. “Tell me now if you desire to see your beloved Irissë.” Tyelkormo did not turn to look at Carnistir nor answer his brother. Carnistir sat back onto his mount, shifting back, allowing himself to exaggerate his comfort on his horse.

 

The initial negotiations were concluded. It was agreed that Lalwen would be the go between. She was hated least, if only because as a woman, Noldorin law did not reposit power into her line and so Fëanáro’s sons did not perceive her as a threat in same way as the men. The ice had changed even the most conservative of the Noldor in Nolofinwë’s host. Many of the customs of Aman were lost to the Grinding Ice. That wasteland imparted harsh lessons, stripping the Noldor to the bone of who they were as a people. They would no longer abide by laws and morals that did not help them survive. Endórë would impart her wisdom and they would remake themselves as a people in her image.

 

Findekáno stood tall, his long braid swaying in the wind. He watched proudly as Lalwen closed the initial talks. Findaráto came to stand next to Findekáno. “That went well enough,” Findaráto quietly observed, “but I cannot help but feel disappointed that my hunger has not been appeased.”

 

Findekáno grunted, laying a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can hope that this hunger that drives us can be satiated.” Findaráto smiled. It was not a happy thing. What was there to be happy about? They had arrived in Endórë and the price was great. Truly, they were relieved, relieved that the death march was over, that they could turn to healing and take the stillness in to mourn their lost ones.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë jumped off his horse, wordlessly sending the horse to the stalls. Elves were scrambling all over the Fëanorian outpost, reacting to the barking orders of their king. Makalaurë was reinforcing the perimeter of the camp, ordering more guards. Ambarussa followed silently at his side, making note of any gaps that he would later need to account for, but as was usually the case Makalaurë missed nothing.

 

Once inside their private quarters, Makalaurë allowed his anger to boil over, slamming his fists against a table that sent the contents flying across the room. It was a spectacular scene as a water jug tumbled and shattered, its contents spilling across the floor. Telvo watched as his brother raged, giving him the room to curse his uncle, to curse Findekáno, to curse the lot of the host that stupidly dared to cross the ice and survive. But Makalaurë’s rage could not be subdued. Telvo had enough of it. “Some poor fool will have to clean all this up,” Telvo spoke to Makalaurë who had thrown himself on chair. Makalaurë jumped up to yell at Telvo but the youngest brother rebuked his brother, his king, pushing him back onto the chair. “I will not tolerate your misplaced anger Kano.”

 

Makalaurë seethed but the feel of his youngest brother’s hand on his chest gave him pause. Makalaurë seemed to remember his breath, closing his eyes to focus on the sound and sensation of it, allowing it to still his nerves. “One more word from Curufinwë and I will have his head,” Makalaurë hissed.

 

Telvo laughed. “We shall take turns then.”

 

Makalaurë felt the anger drain out of him. “I know he thinks his words are meant to succor. At best, they are an annoyance and at worse they reveal the depth of his unwillingness to understand the threat of Nolofinwë.”

 

Telvo grew serious. “He has always been unwilling to see our uncle as equal to father, indeed himself. His conceit clouds his thinking, but he too will see beyond it. He is not a fool.”

 

It was Makalaurë’s turn to laugh. “You mean he will not remain a fool for long.” Makalaurë allowed himself to fall back on the large wood armchair. Makalaurë remembered his earlier tirade, scanning the room for the crown he so carelessly discarded.

 

“Over there,” Telvo offered, pointing to the corner where it had been thrown. Makalaurë picked himself out of the chair once more, walking over to retrieve the crown. Makalaurë cursed himself, retrieving the crown. It had been damaged.

 

Telvo looked over Makalaurë’s shoulder. “Nothing Curufinwë cannot fix.”

 

Makalaurë sighed. “Of course it can be fixed, though I do not know if the larger matter of the Crown can be fixed by as easily. Dark times await us,” Makalaurë murmured, the anger replaced by despondency.

 

Telvo went to stand at a window, looking across the lake towards the South. They would have a few years of peace, at least while it concerned his uncle. The other encampment would be busy establishing themselves, but that would only last a few years. And what of Moringotto? Would he strike, take advantage of their conflict? This could not bode well for the Noldor. Telvo’s thoughts went to Nelyo. Their meeting would have turned out different if Nelyo had been there. Feeling guilty he shot a glance at Makalaurë who was studying his brother.

 

“I miss him too,” Makalaurë offered. Telvo tried to smile, but he could not. Makalaurë continued, “I too consider what it would be like if he were here. What he would say.” Makalaurë walked towards a wooden table Maitimo had built, his hands settling on the grain of the wood, finding, tracing the line Maitimo found in the wood. “I often find myself asking him what he would do in such and such case.” Turning to Telvo, who watched him silently, Makalaurë sighed: “It helps you know, to think of him in this way.”

 

Telvo shook his head.

 

Makalaurë shared, “That I cannot find him, feel him, that I am constantly aware of his absence, of the void of him is a grief that has taken form, follows me.”

 

Telvo hesitated, but his words had their own mind to speak: “That I do not know if he is alive or dead is a bigger burden. We know not if it is Moringotto’s black magic that shields him from us, but then I believe if Nelyo were alive, Moringotto would revel in letting us know he lives.”

 

Makalaurë turned to face his brother. “And yet I dare hope he fears us enough and thus would not let us feel, know that Nelyo lives.” Perhaps that is what he had to believe.

 

“Yes,” Telvo replied, “there is some hope in that.” This time a small smile managed to break on his face.

 

Outside there was a stillness in the air, a type of melancholy that shaped itself into mist. It was not an evil, but a sorrow that would forever more become a part of the Noldor. Even upon the end of their exile, even upon rebirth, this sorrow would haunt their hearts for how could it not? To know such loss and to know that the world and its inhabitants were capable of both beauty and ugliness utterly transformed the Noldor, making them more like their kin that did not complete the Journey west.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Is your heart together now?

**Chapter 2: Is your heart together now?**

_Is your heart together now?_ The words his niece had asked upon their return to the encampment from the meeting with Fëanáro’s sons filled Findekáno with sorrow and anger. _Is your heart together now?_ Such an innocent question, but Itarillë was not innocent. She was a child that had lost too much and yet she always worried about others, about those that cared for her, held her to their hearts to keep the cold at bay and keep her heart together. But her heart had broken. Shattered and somehow she managed to put her heart together, over and over. Perhaps it was made possible by the little pieces of themselves that her family gave her every time she experienced loss. She was a child of the ice and the new Journey. She was not made in the image of Aman. She would be what the Noldor would become: resilient, born from a brokenness that would make her a survivor. And what of him, what of Findekáno? _Is your heart together now?_ The words haunted him. Findekáno felt his stomach turn in knots from hunger and anger. He felt that icy bitterness claim him for well he knew that Itarillë deserved a gentleness from him, deserved his smiles, the dance of light in his eyes that would make her coo when she was a baby curiously watching Findekáno’s face contort with happiness.

 

Findekáno allowed his breath to mingle with the gentle breeze in a way that conjured the Green magic of Endórë. It did not bring him joy. Not yet. It was a mere utility for him.  It had only been but a few days after their return with their meeting with Fëanáro’s sons and disgust refused to leave the pit of his stomach. He wanted to take his knife to Makalaurë’s throat and run it across the delicate skin, allowing the blood to spill, warm his hands and drain the wretched life out of him. Findekáno remembered how the warm blood of ice creatures could warm their hands in that icy hell, like a soothing balm. Though the blood was spilled it was jealously collected to make a hearty broth that sustained, a rare treat. From the blood of the dying came life.

 

Findekáno walked on, a movement to his left caught his eyes. A deer. Quickly he paused and strung his bow but he lowered it as a fawn trotted out from behind bushes to catch up with its mother. The mother looked apprehensively about her, her nose catching the scents in the wind. She smelled him, looking in his direction, recognizing his breath. She took her little one and walked on, confident of her safety, instinct telling her that elves did not hunt mothers, not during the warm seasons. Findekáno understood the mother’s lack of fear towards him and he cursed himself for wanting to take her life and fill his belly with her meat. It took great self-control to keep his arrow pointed to the floor.

 

Stilling his anger, Findekáno allowed his anger to seep into his bones and down through his feet, to the earth beneath that was solid and warm. Some solace. The breeze tickled his nose, a scent was carried on it. Not a doe, not a small thing. This smell was of iron and blood: a living creature, strong with life. Findekáno stilled himself and allowed his senses to reach out. He heard its hooves landing tentatively on the earth below. He was not in sight but Findekáno was sure that he would soon find the large buck. Findekáno crept forward, his steps silent, his breath like the breeze. He saw the buck through the dense trees, a large and fine creature. Not one of the oldest for those also should not be killed as they carried the knowledge of their herd’s migrations. Findekáno allowed his mind to drift towards the buck, find its patterns of thought and look through the myriad of colors and shapes that were deer language. _He does not know the way yet_ , Findekáno surmised. He would make an honorable kill. Findekáno notched his arrow and allowed it to fly. It was true and it fell the buck, killing him instantly. Findekáno did not pray to the Valar. Instead he offered his words to Endórë, to the deer, to that story that was contained in the life he claimed. Findekáno walked over and using leather ties, bound the legs together. He picked up the large animal, arranging the bound legs like satchel over his head. The deer was heavy but Findekáno managed. He would only have a short distance to travel before he could hand it off to others.

 

Before long he found the others and they came and took the deer from him to quickly dress the deer. Findekáno walked back towards the encampment noticing that his people had assembled a good amount of food: grouse, rabbit, deer, and even a large boar, all taken with respect to the laws of Endórë. Her laws were not fickle, not prone to the capriciousness of the Valar as they were in Aman. Endórë had opened her bosom for them and they were thankful for this for well the elves knew that the Black Foe could send out his pestilence at any moment. They foraged finding wild berries and onions, and other greens that came in spring. From the hearts of ferns, they took the fiddleheads, assuring continuous growth, and found caches of wild rice that were not ready to harvest but this brought joy for they knew they could tend these things that would come for days ahead. Some of the smaller animals such as rabbit were set aside to be domesticated for food production. Satisfied with the industry of his people Findekáno walked towards the horse paddock quickly taking shape. While elven horses did not need to be corralled, the darkness of Endórë required such security measures.

 

Findekáno was given space to be alone. That would not last long. They all had roles to play, duties to look after, and a people to inspire. There would be a feast, a celebration of the fullness of the moon that revealed her cycle to them as time wore on. Some elves prepared for the feast while others readied impromptu housing for the larger number of Nolofinwë’s host that found themselves in the old Fëanorian encampment. Findekáno for his part, besides organizing the hunts and patrols, took immediately to the task of making sure their new herd of horses was properly housed and fed. This was an easy task as the old Fëanorian encampment was well equipped for this, but these tasks cemented Findekáno’s role amongst Nolofinwë’s people as their leader of armies.

 

Írissë oversaw the housing of the Nolofinwion camp. She was in the large hall that served as both throne room and banquet hall during the inclement weather found in Endórë. A large part of the hall was turned over to living space that was given to the men and women that would become Nolofinwë’s army. The smaller mud huts and stone buildings became homes to the families that crossed. At least for now, the spring weather afforded them the comfort of sleeping under the stars, but secure housing was needed, particularly for when Morgoth would send out foul weather. The kitchens were Lalwen’s domain and for now, they were busy preparing the bounty the elves had gathered and storing away foods in the large storage rooms that were an indication of the harsh winter weather.

 

Turukáno quickly began to oversee the task of looking for building materials, assessing the nearby quarries that Fëanáro’s people had abandoned, and quickly finding the ink, quills, and parchment left behind. On this paper, he sketched out what their new home would look like. Nolofinwë, for his part, had gathered the leaders of the various houses, sharing the news of the meeting. In this task, the children of Arafinwë were useful. In all, the host committed themselves to making their new homes safe, but they knew that this would only be temporary for in ways of safety they needed to look towards a better refuge. And through Arafinwë’s line they also began to make alliances with the Sindar, the people of these lands. Indeed, many of those born on this side that had Journeyed and were now returned and those who remembered the names of relatives and friends began to seek them out. There was many a homecoming of sort. This bode well for Nolofinwë’s host.

 

Itarillë had taken to a task of her own, one she preferred to keep to herself. She was allowed such choices. Not because elven children mature quicker—sure there was that—but because her childhood was different. There would be no innocence growing up under the light of the Two Trees for her. And yet Itarillë, like the youth that had survived the Journey across the Ice, were bound with a different type of childhood magic, gifted by the shortness of life and the scope of knowledge they had gained. They were tender, quiet, and patient. They loved fiercely and their hope was iron clad, born from hardship and heartache. So Itarillë quietly set about to talking to people, venturing out with Irissë on hunting trips, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Green elves. They had come across a sort of earthen shrine the Green elves devoted to what must be their dead and departed: a testament to the different lives lived in Endórë.

 

Findekáno watched her and another young elf reverently carrying a basket. In better days Findekáno would have teased her for such a show, but these days were different and Findekáno grew somber knowing that whatever was in that basket meant a whole lot.

 

Itarillë found her uncle. It was obvious that her task was sensitive for the other young elf walked ahead, giving the elder elf and his niece privacy. “Uncle,” Itarillë greeted Findekáno. “I knew I would find you here after the hunts.” Findekáno nodded his head, an elegant brow raised, as Findekáno of old tended to do. “A fine stag you brought us,” Itarillë continued, holding the basket gently against her.

 

Findekáno broke his silence. “It was indeed.” He was going to say no more but Itarillë’s smile reminded him he still had a role to play as uncle. “It will fill many a stomach. It bodes well for the winter.”

 

Itarillë’s smile grew brilliant. “It does indeed,” she offered, repeating her uncle’s words. This elicited a snort from Findekáno who found it hard to laugh. For Itarillë it was enough. “I have fond memories of our times together riding out in the wild lands of Aman,” Itarillë revealed, her eyes looking into memory. Findekáno found it ironic that anything had been considered wild in that place they left behind. Itarillë came to the same conclusion: “Funny, isn’t it, that we called those places wild.” Itarillë grew serious. There was nothing comical in her observation. They both knew it. They were traversing the gap between two ages, where what was known was completely and utterly sundered, and now they were embarking on something new, heretofore unimagined. Itarillë looked down at the objects in her basket, her face struck with sorrow. “These things here are part of that story of who we were and who are to become.” Itarillë paused, looking up at her uncle. “These things here are what we lost in the in between.”

 

Findekáno’s spirits fell. Whatever brief joy he met when Itarillë greeted him seemed to tumble into that little basket. The in between: a way of talking about the journey that had quickly caught on. It wasn’t meant to distance the elves from that crossing. Nothing ever could. It was simply a profound sentiment capable of holding everything that the journey meant. Sensing her uncle’s sadness, Itarillë lifted an unfinished carving of a seal her uncle Arakáno had been making for her. When he died, she remembered he had it and through an anguish of tears and screams searched the clothes on his dead body for it. She found it in the pocket of his vest. The Journey had forced Nolofinwë’s elves to relate to death: to the smell of it, to the bodies (if they remained), and to the grieving. A child clutching a loved one became common place. They all needed to, had to touch their dead to grieve them and understand that loss of life. A worse pain was born when the dead were taken from them as Elenwë’s body was taken and sunk into the depths of the icy waters. All this history filled Findekáno’s thoughts. In Itarillë’s too, but differently. She chose to carry that memory through a different path.

 

Findekáno’s voice caught with grief, rendering him unable to speak. With a finger he caressed the unfinished seal that Arakáno had been carving out of a creature’s broken tusk. Itarillë tenderly put it in Findekáno’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Looking into her uncle’s grieving face, Itarillë offered comfort. “When I ventured out with Irissë not two days ago we came across a thicket of trees.” Her voice resonated with a strange quality as she related her encounter to Findekáno. “Hidden in the heart of that place was a wondrous assortment of trinkets placed in the trees or hung from their limbs. It shimmered with sound and light in the darkness of it. Calmacil, who was with us,” Itarillë shared, “knew what it was.” Itarillë was in her mind, traveling back to that sacred place, accompanied by Calmacil, one of the Unbegotten who had pledged himself to the House of Nolofinwë in the springtime of their lives: “He said to us, ‘It is a shrine to the dead and lost of the Laiquendi, a place of offering and remembrance.’ Findekáno, I wish you could see it,” Itarillë continued, her focus back on her surroundings. “There was such a peace to be found there. I felt I could exhale,” Itarillë confessed, exhaling deeply, finishing her tale. “We are new to death and perhaps this thing the Green Elves do is something that can be for us, too.” Itarillë’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “A place to remind us, that can help us mend…put our hearts together.” Of course there would never be mending, but something put together differently: that they could do.

 

Findekáno gathered his niece up in his arms. He held her for a time, breathing in her scent, finding comfort in her youth and hope. Daring to break the magic of the moment, Findekáno gently put Itarillë back on the ground, opening his hand to hand back his brother’s work. “It is a fine thing you do,” Findekáno replied, not able to quite find words adequate to speak from the depth of emotion he found himself battling with.

 

Itarillë spoke words he could not. “I think you have something you can offer. I found a place nearby where we have begun to leave tokens to our loved ones.” Before Findekáno could say “no”, Itarillë implored her uncle, “If you could only come with me, with us,” Itarillë clarified not forgetting her companion. “There are not too many yet who have the heart to do it themselves so they have offered these things here to us which alone is more than they could bear parting with even a day ago.”

 

Findekáno sighed. He would not refuse Itarillë this, though he suspected her reason for coming to him was purposeful. “Very well. I will go with you though I do not think I have anything to give, yet.” Itarillë offered her uncle a radiant smile, not the smiles of unabashed joy. This was a radiance born of hope that knew much sorrow. It was the most beautiful thing Findekáno had ever seen. It struck him then, in that moment that he walked with his companions to the dense thicket of trees, that beauty had revealed itself to him amidst his anger and bitterness. His heart just maybe, just might be put back together, even if imperfectly.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë observed the encampment across the lake. Who had they become, his uncle’s people? Silently he wondered who he had become-his father’s people. It had been months since the fateful meeting between the two camps. Nolofinwë’s people had settled to making a home for themselves, filling their bellies with game and the industry of their gardens. He waxed philosophically about it to whomever would hear him. Curufinwë was his audience on this day, but Makalaurë was strangely quiet, so much so it began unnerving Curufinwë. “You’ve been speaking so prolifically since last we saw Nolofinwë that I thought I would desire your silence, but now that I have it, I like it not. Say what is on your mind.”

 

Makalaurë grimaced. He did not find the capacity to smile, even if it was meant to convey irony, so he offered a grimace. He was tense. There was much to do and plan and consider in this new world with Nolofinwë and his people in it, alongside the threat of Moringotto. Curufinwë looked more cross, expecting that Makalaurë should immediately respond to him, but Makalaurë was unhappy that up to this point, some of his brothers did not think it important to consider what he had been going on about. Truly, it was not their fault. They were all reacting to the new world order that had descended upon them and the grief of their father’s death and Maitimo’s loss that came raging back.

 

Makalaurë went over to a large wooden table that had a large map upon it. “New lands we have charted,” Makalaurë finally offered, “though others have called these lands home for longer than you or I have lived. Nevertheless they are new to us.”

 

Curufinwë stood up from his chair and went to stand next to his brother. “We debated the orientation of the map,” Curufinwë acknowledged, “questioning whether these lands should be oriented in relation to the West.” 

 

Makalaurë let out a heavy sigh. “And yet here this map lies, its coordinates oriented to the West, to that place we cannot return.”

 

Curufinwë could smile and he did. It was not a pretty thing. “A terrible irony that what is most familiar to us is also what rejects us most and that we have denounced.” The oath clamored in both their heads, coming to them as it was wont to do, from the depths and darkness where it found a home, waiting to be conjured and fulfilled.

 

Makalaurë spread his large hands on the map upon the details of the expanse of water between Aman and Endórë. “Nolofinwë’s peoples do not look to the West as we do,” Makalaurë spoke, conceding what troubled him. Curufinwë pursed his lips. Makalaurë was right. Nolofinwë’s people had an advantage. Makalaurë continued, guessing what Curufinwë was seeing on that same map: “Cartography is a science we both studied under father, but what I think I failed to understand then,” _that Maitimo had grasped_ Makalaurë thought to himself, “was the world making in it. We were so arrogant to see the world solely through our eyes.” Curufinwë crossed his arms in front of him. Part of him wanted to argue that theirs was the best way to see the world and yet he understood his brother. Makalaurë let his fingers trace the contours of the coast and travel to that point where Nolofinwë’s camp was newly marked. “They are utterly changed. Unrecognizable,” Makalaurë shuttered, memories of that fateful meeting seared into his thoughts. Curufinwë nodded his head in agreement. Makalaurë’s point hit home hard. Makalaurë offered his final assessment, “If they are to be our enemy we cannot rely on what we knew of them to guess a move or motive on their part, much less an outcome.”

 

Curufinwë frowned. “Their Journey is unimaginable,” he shared, agreeing—for once—with his elder brother.

 

“And this makes them dangerous my brother,” Makalaurë turned to look at Curufinwë, his pained eyes revealing what it cost him to be a King to a fierce people that may not understand such paradigmatic shifts in elven history and time. Curufinwë sighed, bringing his hand up to rub his temple. Makalaurë knew he had him so he pressed on. “We need to forge an alliance, though not a friendship, use their need to keep us close. Only then can we begin to understand them as they are now.”

 

“Aye,” Curufinwë answered, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat. Clearing his throat, Curufinwë proposed what had been seemingly impossible just hours earlier. “You will have my vocal support in this.”

 

Makalaurë fell back into his chair. He missed Maitimo and his father fiercely, but Maitimo more, though that gave him an awful sort of guilt. Maitimo would have understood this scenario immediately. Fëanáro would have understood it but his pride and anger towards his brother would have blinded him. And now they were all paying for those emotions. Looking up at Curufinwë  caused Makalaurë to laugh, in spite of himself. “If I did not know you so well, brother, the way you are looking at me just now, I would think you look down upon me with disdain… and pity.”

 

Curufinwë inclined his head, “But you know me better.”

 

“I do. But there is pity there in your eyes. I see it.” Curufinwë did not correct Makalaurë. “This is not a title I wanted nor ever _imagined_ I would have,” Makalaurë confessed what he knew Curufinwë and the others intuited.

 

Makalaurë’s words resonated with Curufinwë in light of their previous conversation. Mustering as much emotional demonstrativeness as he could, Curufinwë gingerly placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I do feel sorrow and compassion for you,” he admitted. This caused Makalaurë to put his hand over Curufinwë’s, meriting more surprise from Makalaurë when his brother did not remove his hand. Curufinwë was not finished and though he would not speak to Makalaurë like this again, he confessed a sentiment that Makalaurë would carry with him until the end of his days: “And yet you are our champion. None of us could stand in your shoes. We would sooner bring us to folly. You are our King.”

 

Makalaurë’s mouth fell agape. He had no words. The moment was fleeting. Curufinwë  removed his hand from under his brother’s hand and cleared his throat to bring back attention to his face that he had once more schooled to sternness. “I must go find my son. We have much work to do.” As Curufinwë  exited from Makalaurë’s room, Makalaurë whispered a “thank you” that reached his ears. Curufinwë too would never forget this moment.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needs editing but I wanted to get it up!


	3. In Times of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, this is a Fingon-centric love fest of a story.
> 
> Morgoth is not supposed to attack during these early years because he sent up clouds of smoke, darkening Hithlum. I change this in my story.

 

**Chapter 3: In times of war**

 

One day of ominous luminescence, Findekáno, like a parable to his people, changed his name. Years from that day, Turgon would always remember his brother’s defiance and righteous anger. On that day, he left behind Turukáno and started dreaming. Irissë too would remember, though for her, it was also a reminder that as much as things changed others remained utterly constant. Nolofinwë held steadfast because he needed to, at least he convinced himself of that, but the queer hues of color unsettled him enough that not long from that moment in the accounting of elves he would whisper his children’s names before heading off into the annals of elven history in the First Age of their days on Middle Earth. They were, on that day, truly people of the Ice remade in the shadow of Endórë.  But this day came after their first battle and it came because of it….

)()()()(

Mysterious shadows settled on the land. The angle of them was all wrong even though the sun was true to its course. Under the cover of night, the effect was stranger, the black edges of the shadows crooked, untrue to the material object that cast the shape. It was unsettling, the first of Moringotto’s ill magic that the host of Nolofinwë encountered in Endórë. The attacks were coming. Nolofinwë felt it in his bones, through his skin, a whisper in the corners of his mind. Moringotto was readying his dark creatures to check their defenses, test the tensions between the two Noldorin factions.

Quietly, a group of Noldorin soldiers—for that is what they were—readied weapons: quivers filled with arrows, swords sharpened, daggers readied. In pairs, the elves braided each other’s hair in plaits flat against the head. Nimble fingers deftly wove in threads enchanted with old Eldar magic. There were few who remembered the old incantations, but enough to whisper protections and courage into the fibers that were threaded in the long plaits of hair. Similar trinkets adorned the horses’ manes and tales. While history would later paint these elven traditions as simply faerie whimsy, to behold an elven steed thus adorned would soon cause foe and ally alike to quell with fear.

Findekáno stood ready at the edge of the camp, watching the black smoke that rose from the Fëanorian camp. His face grim, he directed an elf that stood next to him to answer. She would become his lieutenant, leader of his guard when the kingship came to him, a rank earned through the misery of the Helcaraxë.  Approaching the watch fire that remained lit, Accarrë felt the weight of the pouch in her hand. The strange compound within began to respond to the heat generated from the blood pounding within her. Her family had found it as they crossed into Endórë. Of all of Nolofinwë’s host, they would be the ones to covet such a substance and gather it for the powder in her pouch was the ashes of wood burned by Morgoth’s fire demons, the Malkarauki, becoming a thing of darkness unto its own. A pinch of powder thrown into the fire would raise black smoke and the resulting flames would devour the wood.

Accarrë marched across the camp, those near her parting. Not many would desire such a substance, and yet the accusations of old were left to rot in the Blessed Lands. Once, in another time, accusations of witchery were laid at her family’s feet. No more. The knowledge they kept from the time of Awakening by the shores of Cuiviénen was once more…useful. Irissë watched the new order announce itself. She stood proudly next to her father, observing her dear friend take her rightful place amongst their people and next to Findekáno. Accarrë removed the pouch from her belt, carefully opening it to reveal its precious contents. Whispering words long forgotten by elvish memory, she called forth shadow and with a quick flick of her fingers deposited the ash into the fire.

The fire moaned causing the fine hairs on Findekáno to rise, such was the power of fear and horror it provoked. Muttering and soft cries rumbled throughout the camp. Nolofinwë held up his hand to quiet his people. “Long ago,” Nolofinwë pronounced, “our people were wedded to all of Endórë. We understood then that darkness and light were not a duality but a continuum in the melody of all that was around us, in us.” While Nolofinwë spoke, Irissë made her way to the fire, at first whispering the same incantations Accarrë had spoken. From the other direction came Lalwen, and finally came Artanis, their voices in whispered unison, proclaiming with power the old magic. Itarillë was mesmerized, both shaken and awed by the world revealing itself. Her arm was aching so strong was her father’s hold on it. He was forgetting himself, also watching in awe as things he had only heard about in whispers were now conjured.

Nolofinwë signaled the new age: “Let us remember who we are, who we are meant to be.” His hands raised towards the fire followed by a whoosh of sound as arms were thrown up in the air around him. The voices of the four maidens grew louder whipping the fire into a frenzy. A thick black smoke snaked its way into the air, reaching to the stars. Nolofinwë’s host surrounded the pit. The black smoke was meant as more than just a signal to the Fëanorian camp that acknowledged their warning of the threat. The billowing smoke sent its thick tendrils into the strange day, announcing to Morgoth and his creatures of what was to come. Nolofinwë contemplated what such a show from his host would elicit from the fallen Vala.

Findekáno made his way to his father’s side. Nolofinwë’s mind turned to his son, regarding for a moment the task Findekáno had taken on: to find the best military organization for the time and place they were. While they relied on the units formed on the Ice, in Endórë they would need time, experience, and advice from their kin that did not Journey to consider what military infrastructure would work best for them. Nolofinwë faltered, _We too have fallen_ , he conceded. Would it help or hinder them in their fight against Morgoth?

“We stand ready,” Findekáno briskly addressed his father. Nolofinwë nodded. Findekáno’s hunger was palpable. There was a wildness to the blue hue of his eye, made more so by the strange light. His muscles twitched subtly beneath his light leather armor, but this was his eldest. Having time to know and study their children, Elven parents were keen in the observation of their children, taking note of the smallest details: the way the pupil dilated, the flare of a nostril, the relaxation of a certain muscle, the tensing of another, and the planting of the feet just so upon the earth. But Findekáno was also new to Nolofinwë, a wildness to him.

Nolofinwë gifted his son a feral smile. Speaking so that all could hear him, he addressed his eldest: “Go now our Captain. Herald death and fear to those that would threaten us.” Findekáno inclined his head and held his hand to his heart. It was not lost on him that his father’s words were as much about the Fëanorians they would meet up with as well as Morgoth’s creatures that marched against them. Around father and son, the crowd broke out in a hungry roar, smaller moments of encouragement shared with those loved ones that would be taking the horses to meet up with the Fëanorian host to battle the oncoming darkness.

The crowd parted, allowing the members of the elven company to walk to the horses that awaited. The mighty elven steeds were a sight to behold—rearing, neighing, nipping at one another—the bloodlust of their elven kin intoxicating. Riders took to their mounts. Findekáno allowed his horse room to ready itself for battle in the way horses did; it reared, dancing on its hind legs, letting out a hearty war cry as it leapt forward to meet whatever evil lay ahead.

)()()()(

Accarrë’s brought her horse to a halt beside Findekáno. They stood but a league away from the other encampment which was more truly a fort. Knowing the Fëanorians observed them the entirety of their route, Findekáno could only guess what thoughts they held, what they spoke aloud. This was to be the first test of whether the two camps could come together to face the threat of their common enemy. In the months that had stretched between Nolofinwë’s arrival and this moment, they had few dealings with one another. Findekáno had not seen his cousins since that initial meeting. Lalwen and other lords of Nolofinwë’s people were charged with this diplomacy. And yet here he was. He knew this moment would arrive sooner or later. His stomach was twisted in knots, his anger like a cauldron boiling within him, but Findekáno tried to contain that anger. The threat lay beyond the Fëanorians this day. Each camp knew that Morgoth was testing them, poking and prodding, hoping he could promote further tension and division within the ranks- the easier to defeat them.

Accarrë glanced at Findekáno. He wore his hate openly. “My captain,” Accarrë named Findekáno by a title that had not yet been decided on. Findekáno’s attention snapped to Accarrë, amused by the honorific she used for him, as his father had. Having known Accarrë since she was a child, Findekáno knew better than ignore the advice she had for him; and coming to know her across the ice he knew her words would have merit. “You must learn to better mask your feelings for the others. We all know how you feel for we share in it.” Turning to face the Fëanorian encampment, she continued, “They know how you feel, but having to bear such a scathing reminder of our disdain for them would not bode well marching into battle.”

Findekáno chuckled, a rare thing for him, but Accarrë was right. With a stiff nod, he acknowledged her words, trying as best he could to school his features into a blank slate.  “That’s better,” Accarrë offered. Closing one eye and with the other observing Findekáno she declared, “If all goes well and we all do our part, I might just find it in me to share my bed under the stars with you.”

Findekáno raised a single eyebrow. They were an angry and sad people, but that did not mean they abandoned their bodies’ needs. Sex was something that saved them on the ice, reminding them of the heat of life. Perhaps it was also a sad commentary that for many it was merely instrumental. It was a difficult path back to find that sort of intimacy for those that bore the guilt of surviving. Findekáno replied, “What of my sister’s bed? Will she not miss you in it? 

Accarrë grunted, “She will not quarrel me this one night.” 

The creases around Findekáno’s eyes softened.  The brightness in his eyes shifting from darkness to tenderness. Nothing more needed to be said. Findekáno urged his horse on with a flicker of a thought, leaving Accarrë behind. No, Irissë would not begrudge Accarrë sharing intimacy with Findekáno. In fact, Irissë would encourage it, so worried was she that her brother was losing too much of his elvishness and becoming a dark thing. The Kinslaying and Maitimo’s betrayal had robbed him of much of that part of himself and yet somehow Accarrë found a way to squeeze through his barriers just enough to keep him from closing that part of himself off.

Accarrë rode behind Findekáno, the other riders falling in line behind them. They were those most loyal to Findekáno, friends from youth, distant cousins, sons and daughters of those families within Nolofinwë’s inner circle: nobles, crafts people, farmers. The old distinctions did not matter in the same way. Survival dictated the new order.

From ahead of her she heard Findekáno call out: “Witch.” Accarrë smiled to herself. The others found it amusing too and they each said a prayer for Accarrë, their enchantress who offered them a different sort of gateway to Endórë, the second to Findekáno’s lead. Though they too had lost many, they did not carry quite the darkness their beloved Findekáno did, but darkness indeed was wedded to all them, all Kinslayers: Findekáno’s company.

 

)()()()(

 

“Vengeance is thy name,” Tyelkormo whispered, observing Nolofinwë’s people gather outside their encampment, and in particular observing Accarrë, a figure he was familiar with.

“I always thought it strange her parents gave her such a name. I remember the scandal of it,” Carnistir murmured, noticing Tyelkormo’s gaze was locked on her.

“Your memory of it is off,” Tyelkormo corrected his brother, “It is her mother name, given to her after a dream her mother had.” A dream that had proved to be a prophetic vision of their damnation and their will.

Carnistir waved off his brother with a flourish of his hand, “True, I did not care enough about Accarrë or her family to give a tinker’s damn, but now….” Carnistir’s voice trailed off, his keen eyes focused on Accarrë. “She’s a witch,” Carnistir snarled.

Tyelkormo leaned out over the crenel to get a better view, using Carnistir as an anchor. “So it was said of mother,” Tyelkormo retorted knowing Carnistir outwardly spoke of their mother with contempt.

Carnistir eyes grew narrow, “And so it was said of your white lady.” He felt Tyelkormo tense, his grip on Carnistir deepen.

Releasing his hold on Carnistir, Tyelkormo did not respond, choosing instead to change the subject to one that was also on their minds: “Are we simply going to let Makalaurë lead our company? He should not endanger himself so.”

Carnistir sighed, “There is no changing his mind. He goes with good men.” The Fëanorians were all fierce fighters.

“He does,” Tyelkormo admitted, “but he should not expose himself so.”

“That is why you must do your best to see no harm comes to him,” Carnistir advised his brother. “I worry about more than just a horde of orcs,” he added, eyeing Findekáno who had not spoken a word and simply waited quietly for the Fëanorians to acknowledge him. It was unnerving. “Protocol be damned,” he spat out.

Tyelkormo grimaced. They were making protocol anew if such could be said of it. Of all of them, he believed he had the best chance of reading Findekáno, of understanding him. They had similar personalities which caused them to butt heads in better days, and conceivably, this was something he could rely on to help Makalaurë make sense of the new order of things. If they were to be battle allies, Tyelkormo was their best hope in figuring out what that alliance would look like in the heat of the clash.

Makalaurë walked into the courtyard, helm in hand, sword at his side. “To your horses,” he commanded which prompted a flurry of activity.

Tyelkormo ran down the stairs of the battlement to find his brother. “Are you sure of this. You do not have to do this.”

Makalaurë offered a thin smile. “Would you say the same to father or Nelyo?”

Tyelkormo shifted his weight back onto his heals, biting his lips. Of course he would not. Inclining his head to his king, Tyelkormo leapt onto the horse that awaited him.

Ambarto handed him his silver helm. “Come back to us, Tyelko. Bring them all back.”

Tyelko leaned over his horse, grasping his younger brother’s shoulder, “We will Pityo. I promise that.”

Ambarto knew better than to remind Tyelko that promises could no longer made. They were illusions, but he knew that it was in his brother’s nature to believe he could. Beautiful Tyelko, Ambarto reached up and touched his cheek. This would not be good bye. Not yet.   

Makalaurë’s horse let out a battle scream, commanding the other elven steeds for the ready. It acted for its lord and Makalaurë decided it was time to meet with the company outside the gates and then to whatever awaited them. Previous to this moment many conversations were had, orders given, and plans conceived concerning Findekáno and his people. The gates opened and Makalaurë led his company to meet Findekáno’s.

Horses snorted and kicked the earth sensing their riders distrust of the other. Findekáno pushed his horse forward, Accarrë following behind him. The others remained where they were. Makalaurë and Tyelkormo went forward to meet Findekáno their helms held at their sides. Findekáno removed his white helm that did not offer near the protection that the more stalwart helms of the Fëanorians. Findekáno noted the differences in armament. The Fëanorians wore fine steel mail under their leather, thick leather greaves on their legs, and leather braces on their arms. Findekáno’s company had few such accoutrements. Many of these things were lost to them when the ships sailed without them and left on the path of the grinding ice. The few items offered to them by the Fëanorians were shared by those who scouted and hunted. Another reminder of the betrayal. Another Fëanorian affront to Nolofinwë’s people.

Findekáno spoke first. “I will speak plainly for we cannot afford any discord to follow us when we go to battle.” Makalaurë, inclined his head. Tyelkormo kept his eyes trailing from Accarrë to Findekáno. He knew others were watching the remainder of Findekáno’s company. His face was drawn tight, his eyes filled with the eerie glow of those that had seen the light of the Two Trees. Findekáno had only eyes for Makalaurë. Speaking through gritted teeth, holding back the venom that wanted to spill forth, he spoke of what was plain for all to see. “You are better equipped than we are and we know the reasons _why,”_ Findekáno hissed.

Tyelkormo allowed his horse to move close to Findekáno’s. “We will allow your company to use our armament if you need it,” Tyelko retorted, his eyes narrowing, daring Findekáno to a confrontation.

Makalaurë pushed Tyelkormo’s horse off with his leg, announcing, “Enough, Tyelko.” Makalaurë turned his attention to Findekáno, his eyes glowing with both anger and the light of the Two Trees. “There will always be a reminder of the burning of the ships and your march across the ice. I cannot do anything to remedy that now,” Makalaurë breathed, his words tumbling in anger and frustration. “Let us settle this if you need to after we meet whatever comes for us. My men will take the foreguard.”

“We will not…”

“Findekáno do not be a fool. We are better equipped and can take more blows and direct arrows than all of you. This is only tactic, not a question of your worth.”

Findekáno growled. Makalaurë was right. Findekáno spun his horse around to face his people. “So it shall be,” Findekáno agreed unhappily. Before he returned to his company, Findekáno nudged his horse to walk backwards to Makalaurë so he could be face to face with his cousin. “We will take the rearguard.” 

“Then let us go and meet them,” Makalaurë growled, impatient, needing to get on with it and meet those responsible for taking his brother and his father.

Findekáno allowed his horse to gallop to his men, Accarrë at his side. Findekáno whistled and the elven riders lined up in their formation, waiting for the Fëanorians to form the arrow in front of them. Findekáno took the rear, sending Accarrë to the middle which did not make her happy but his orders were brisk. Makalaurë rode in the front. Tyelkormo came to the rear to ride with Findekáno. Even if they did not speak they could at least feel each other out.

 _What is that?_ Something buzzed at the edges of Tyelkormo’s consciousness. Realization dawned on him: Findekáno. Mind speak? It made sense. There were many birds in the sky, some surely spies. Tentatively Tyelkormo allowed Findekáno in, but it was unfamiliar, not the Findekáno he had known.

 _What did you expect?_ Findekáno spoke to his cousin in the curious elven manner. Tyelko glanced at Findekáno who was watching him intently.

He answered, _I am not sure what to expect_. No need to beat around the bush.

_I need you to tell me as much as you can about these orcs._

_Of course_ , Tyelkormo reasoned. Findekáno and his company did not have as much experience as the Fëanorians fighting the orcs. He exchanged as much information as he could, noticing that as he related the information Findekáno was passing it on to Accarrë. Certainly, they all needed to know. Nevertheless, he peered at her through narrowed, untrusting eyes. They’d never gotten along. Findekáno nudged Tyelko’s leg hard, commanding his attention and warning him. Tyelko hissed and gritted his teeth.

Before closing their connection, Findekáno offered Tyelkormo what Tyelko took to be a generous thought: _Some things do not change._ Or was it meant as an offense? Tyelko could not tell. Noting the confusion on his face, Findekáno snorted, settling into the ride.

)()()()()(

Makalaurë gritted his teeth waiting for the onslaught. They’d lost the advantage of allowing the horses to charge into them. The horses could not be exposed too long to such close combat. A rider stopped next to him. It was Findekáno. Of course it would be. Though his company stayed in the rear lines, there was no way in the void that Findekáno would not be at the fore. Suddenly, time slowed for Makalaurë. The clouds cleared and the roar of the orcs grew to a mere whisper. Findekáno was whispering words, calling into being power, words that Makalaurë had known his father to speak. It dawned on him then the resemblance between Findekáno and Fëanaro. How come he’d never seen it, never thought their personality so alike? Is this what his father would be like if he did not have the burden of losing a mother in a land where there was supposed to be no death?

Findekáno was summoning forth the songs of power they possessed, but he was not using them as Fëanaro had. Instead he was pulling the power into him. _No!_ Makalaurë thought to himself, what was he doing? Findekáno’s face was bathed in darkness and light, the border between shadow and light cloven between his eyes. The horse beneath him danced, its fury held in check by the thighs of the rider pressed against the horse, willing it to still. Its hooves clamored on the stone, its masters breathing heavy, both creatures restive, ready for battle, smelling the blood of their enemy.

Tyelkormo’s horse pranced beneath him. Secrecy was not demanded so he allowed the horse to release its nervous energy, to whip itself into battle fury. He too could feel the energy stir within him. He could smell it, the feral primacy of battle. They would all, in time, come to recognize the elven battle fervor, but this was not a quality cultivated in Aman.

The wind stopped, the chirping of birds quieted, and the shadows grew longer. Above them clouds were obfuscated by an unnatural shadow. Morgoth’s creatures were here. The horses’ eyes grew large, their breathing hard, spit dropping from their mouths. Findekáno’s mount danced in circles, its rider’s head whipping back and forth, eyes shining with fury. The others in Findekáno’s company were similarly dancing in place, waiting for the attack. They had no other choice.

Over the hill they came, a black horde. Thousands to the elves hundred. They marched but a sudden wind made such a sound that their heavy footsteps were muted. They came. They were coming, coming for them. The whites of their eyes and razor sharp teeth gleaming in the moonless night. Dark fires within, indeed. The fiends stopped, willing the elves to meet them on the crest of the hill, but the elves stood their ground at the bottom of the hill that offered them some protection. Instead the orcs were greeted with rain of arrows, but they were ready, shields held up, locked together, but another wave of arrows came lower finding the vulnerable openings. The first lines fell, and then the second, but the orcs were many and they advanced trampling over the dead.

“Forward!” A dark creature cried in the dark language. The orcs cried out and ran to meet the elves. 

Makalaurë sang out, a clear and bright note, its power ripped the wind back into a frenzy sending it like a whip into the orc horde. Twenty fell, then thirty. Other elves raised their voices with Makalaurë, but the orcs had a strong magic on them, able to better resist the songs of power, even if only momentarily. Findekáno could not sing with them because he had taken all that power into himself. Songs of power were tiring. The elves could not expend all their energy this way, but they would have better odds. Makalaurë called the song back. Hundreds had been killed and hundreds more felled by arrows that rained on them in the confusion the Song produced. Better odds. The horses leapt into the battle with their riders claiming hundreds more. Better odds at every stroke, at every slice.

It was time. The elves jumped off their steeds, sending them back, though the horses desired to remain in battle they did as their masters desired, retreating, but not before kicking and ripping and biting at any black thing that got in their way. Elves in battle were a terrible sight to behold. The Fëanorians and the Nolofinwions were brutal, allowing their doom to serve them in devastation. Kinslayers. Dealing death, offering no mercy.

Findekáno stood in the middle of the carnage, a silver glean of moonshine finding him. He could die on this night. It would be a good death. Findekáno answered his death song, bringing it to bear on his enemies as his elven peers tired around him as he knew they would. Findekáno’s small company had this going for them, stores of energy that they learned to pull in, to keep going. A lesson from the Ice. His sword sang and cried, slicing, beheading, crunching, catching bone. The smell of rotten iron of orcish blood filled his nose with fury. His lungs were on fire, propelling him forward into the melee, dancing and killing, all in one beautiful motion. Merciless, brutal, following the rhythm of dying and dealing death. His sword pummeled and found its way through flesh. His hand reached and ripped at heads, ears and eyes, such was elven strength that he could rip a head, clean from the spine. It brought him joy, allowed him to feel light and dark. The music of slaughter summoned the kinslayer, called into being destruction.

And then Findekáno saw the mark of the orcs that attacked them when they first set foot in Endórë. Remembered Arakáno, saw him fall, the anguish of not being able to get to his brother on time. The smell of his brother’s death filled him, causing bile to come up, but he spit it out, crying out vengeance for his brother. Enraged he flew into the orcs, his company with him for they all knew the red mark of those creatures. Their swords were brutal and violence and terror was inflicted upon Morgoth’s minions. The orcs cowered under the onslaught. Bright fiery eyes of violence would be the last thing they would witness before their death. Their death was carnage. They deserved nothing more, so Findekáno’s people fought, terrorizing those dark things that had once laughed at them, fleeing with elves, taking them as prisoners to Morgoth. Findekáno’s aim had been true that day not too long ago. With his few remaining arrows he had been able to bring peace to those captives. Their people would not be taken in that way. Findekáno. Kinslayer.

Most of the orcs were dead. Findekáno was not yet spent. He was bent over catching his breath, willing the rage that welled inside him to dissipate but it was stronger than he was. Findekáno stumbled on the blood covering the ground but he would not allow any orc dying to take one more breath, not while he was there. With a hand he ripped apart the bodies, finding those that clung to life, slicing their throats, and throwing their bodies. He kept searching, frantic, looking for more. His people knew better, knew that their captain needed to spend his anger and rage, allow his bloodlust to find an outlet.

“Enough,” Makalaurë commanded, but Findekáno did not hear him. “Enough!” Makalaurë cried out, walking over the dead bodies to get to Findekáno. Tyelkormo was tending to wounded elves, but his eyes were trained on his brother.

Findekáno would not listen. “Enough,” Makalaurë whispered, tentatively placing a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder.

Findekáno growled. “Do not touch me.” 

Makalaurë stepped back. “Findekáno, find yourself.”

“Find myself?” Findekáno snarled, turning on Makalaurë.

In an instant Tyelkormo jumped up to ready an arrow but Accarrë was quicker, catching Tyelkormo and putting a knife to his throat. Findekáno’s men were pointing arrows at the Fëanorians. Accarrë commanded the Fëanorians to lower their weapons or risk losing both their Lords. A standstill.

Findekáno threw Makalaurë to the ground drawing a knife on him. Makalaurë had not expected this. He should have, but Makalaurë was too overwhelmed. A different shadow of fear and memory washed over him. Findekáno seethed, “I am myself. You on the other hand.”  Findekáno snarled, readying himself to kill the man in his hands.

Makalaurë saw another. Those eyes, so cold and remote. So much pain. So much pain. Recognition. Fear. Love. It was all familiar. “Father!” Makalaurë cried out, “please stop!”

Findekáno froze.

“Father, I love you,” Makalaurë pleaded.

The dagger slipped from Findekáno’s hands. He recognized Makalaurë. Saw in his eyes what he had seen in Maitimo when he watched Fëanaro. _I am not him!_ Findekáno recoiled. “I am not him,” Findekáno uttered, stepping back, confused. In the process he released Makalaurë, dropping him to the ground. 

The thump brought Makalaurë back to the present. Tears clouded his vision. What had just happened? “Findekáno?” But Findekáno did not look at him.

Instead, Findekáno turned to face his company. “Put your weapons down.” His people did.

Accarrë hissed, releasing Tyelkormo, “Don’t you dare turn on him. I will have you if you touch a head of his hair.”

Tyelkormo sneered at Accarrë before running to Makalaurë. He had heard everything. They all had. It was unsettling. They were in shock, both from battle and from the intensity of everything that had brought them here to this moment. There could be no more violence this night. Everyone present understood this. They needed to return to their horses, assemble together once more. They needed the safety of numbers. The road back was not safe. 

“Findekáno, look at me,” Accarrë pleaded, grabbing at his arm, but Findekáno shrugged her off. “Fin,” she whispered softly, “don’t do this.” Findekáno looked back at her, breaking her heart, again. His anguish and hurt marked his face. It was terrible to see him so exposed. Anger was one thing, but this pain and vulnerability could be the ruin of them all, Nolofinwë’s host. They could not let themselves succumb to it. From a strap on her arm she took out a dagger and held it out in menacing manner. “Do not force my hand.” 

Findekáno was dazed, the coming down from the battle song he had woven around himself emptied him further. Accarrë lunged at Findekáno cutting his arm.  Findekáno hissed.  “Come back to me you fool,” she demanded of her friend.

Findekáno looked at his wound and then back at Accarrë. “Who am I?”

“No!” Accarrë howled lunging at him once more, this time cutting his cheek.

“You crazy bitch!” Tyelkormo cried out, leaping towards her only to be pulled back by Makalaurë. “What are you doing?” he demanded of his brother. Makalaurë shook his head, understanding what Accarrë was doing.

Findekáno growled. “Yes!” Accarrë hissed. “One more time,” she whispered, lunging at Findekáno with deadly force. This time Findekáno caught her arm, twisting it quickly, causing her to release the dagger in hand. He held on to her for a moment, inflicting pain. “That’s it,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her arm on the verge of breaking.

Findekáno’s company kept watch of their surroundings. Not a one of them moved to interfere. They understood what was happening, why it needed to happen. The Fëanorians were wide eyed, once more reminded their kin were unrecognizable.

Accarrë swept out Findekáno’s legs underneath him. He landed with a loud thump. Groaning, he let out a small laugh. Accarrë stood over Findekáno offering him her hand. “You no longer need to break it.”

Findekáno replied with a feral smile as Accarrë pulled him up. Looking down at her, his smile intact, he finally spoke: “Witch.” This caused the Nolofinwions to let out a cheer.  Findekáno turned to look at Makalaurë, deciding whether to say something, whether to address what happened before.  But what had happened before? Findekáno needed time and a clearer head to think on it. “Let’s get our wounded back to your healers,” Findekáno declared, his attention on Makalaurë. Makalaurë inclined his head and quietly spoke orders to his men.

Tyelkormo, for his part, walked by Accarrë, whispering, “You are still one crazy bitch.” Accarrë let out a snort. Tyelkormo had not changed, at least not much. This angered her. It was a luxury to have the opportunity to keep a part of who you had been with you. She spit in disgust at Tyelkormo’s feet. He raised his hands, indicating a truce.

“To your mounts,” Findekáno commanded. One of the Fëanorians whistled summoning the horses. Soon enough horse and rider were reunited. This time no horse had been maimed. That was a good thing. The elves bodies were sore and bruised. They returned more slowly. Not much was spoken. There was nothing that needed to be said then. Perhaps at another time.

)()()()(

Dawn greeted them at the gates of the Fëanorian encampment. The wounded of Findekáno’s company were treated. Findekáno could not bear the wait, but bear it he must. Once the healers had finished, Findekáno’s wounded companions were free to go. It was folly to suggest they stay to recover even though some merited it. They had been lucky to not suffer a loss. Too lucky perhaps. This worried Findekáno. This worried Makalaurë too. Moringotto was up to something.

  
)()()(

They returned victorious; the weathered Nolofinwion standard held high. People cheered. The wounded were carried to the healers. The horses were taken and tended to. A crowd had gathered to throw flowers at the feet of the company that had met the enemy and won.

Nolofinwë greeted his son with a strong embrace. “I am glad to have you home, my son.” Findekáno nodded, choosing to embrace his father instead of offering words. This worried Nolofinwë. Findekáno had never been a man of few words. “ _Yonya_ ,” Nolofinwë soothed, taking Findekáno’s chin in his hand, “I know you carry a terrible burden.”

“My son,” he repeated, “you must find your words.” Findekáno wanted to pull back from his father. He was asking him to become a Prince again, to step into the role that was no longer mere ornament. “It is your duty,” Nolofinwë reminded him. What a terrible price to pay!

“Speak to your people,” Nolofinwë directed his son, knowing that Findekáno had a choice set before him: be the figure his people needed or retreat into the darkness that consumed him. While Findekáno had been given space to be, that time was over. Nolofinwë needed his son’s thoughts, his advice. Their people did. Findekáno was like a beacon for them and on the morrow of this battle, what they needed now were the type of words that would be recorded in books, committed to memory. 

Findekáno pressed his face into his father’s hand, summoning up whatever strength he had left. Nolofinwë offered his son his own. _Lean on me, use my strength,_ Nolofinwë soothed him. Findekáno felt childish and churlish, knowing his father and brother did not receive the same space to brood and hold themselves apart, indeed the burden of parenthood.

Findekáno stood straight and breathed in deeply. He knew what he needed to say. Words had always been easy for him. He needed to find that courage again. Turning to face his audience, Findekáno raised his hand. The crowd quieted. He was tired. He would speak words, but was unsure what would come from him. The battle song took its toll, ripping away barriers Findekáno erected around him. Itarillë’s smile materialized from within the crowd. If not for him then for her:

“I died today. I died yesterday. I died on that ice.” The crowd hushed. Smiles gave way to somber faces.  “And yet here I stand,” Findekáno offered, his hands turned out to his people. “I am….” Findekáno’s voice faltered, emotions stirring within. His father’s hand at his back urged him on. Clearing his throat, he continued, “We are not the people we once were.” Findekáno took a moment to survey the faces that looked at him, all known to him. Murmurs of understanding rippled through the crowd. “We must become a people anew. Not to turn our backs on those that were needlessly sacrificed to the Ice. Not to forget them.”

Findekáno sought out Turukáno and focused on him. “We are remade to avenge them.”

“Yes,” many in the crowd shouted. Turukáno’s eyes were filled with tears. How he missed his beloved. 

“We were victorious. It was a bloody victory and they felt the wrath of our people,” Findekáno cried out, emotion overtaking him. The crowd now roared their approval. “I say to you again. I, we died on that ice. We died the moment we understood death. We cannot go back,” Findekáno spoke, pointing to the west. The crowd was again subdued but there was also a determination to them. 

“We are remade because death is now wedded to us. We will not forget our dead. From death we remake ourselves.” Findekáno whipped out his dagger, holding it up to the crowd. “From their blood, from their memory, we remake ourselves in this place.” Findekáno sliced open his palm. “ _Siya Eldalië_ , Behold, people of the Eldar,” Findekáno’s blood dripped to the earth. “To Endórë we are now wedded.”

“To Endórë!” the gathered elves shouted, many mimicking Findekáno’s blood offering, a ceremony of elder days.

Findekáno felt the surge of the old magic stir, sensed the thrum of it, the heat stirring in their circle. They all could. It was a first, a first in a long time for them. They experienced a small happiness. It struck Findekáno that he truly was no longer Findekáno and that it would take time for him to come to terms with who he was now. _Father_ , Makalaurë, had seen Fëanáro in Findekáno. Truly, a bit of his uncle had always been in him. It was not a terror, for Fëanáro had been bright and bold in better days. But what about these darker days?

“My name,” he whispered to himself amidst the shouting of his people.

For Findekáno, his old name too closely resembled innocence, reminded him of things he no longer wanted to remember. One of his clansmen, a distant relative from before the cleaving of the Clans called forth by Oromë’s horns, took to calling him Fingon, Findekáno’s name in the Sindarin fashion.

“On this day forth,” Findekáno shouted, quieting the crowds, “I shall be known by a new name I have chosen. It has come to me by way of our kin who never journeyed. I know of no better way to come by a name.”

Looking upon the crowd, Findekáno smiled, but this was for his father. Turning to Nolofinwë, Findekáno kneeled before him, offering his sword. “My liege, my lord, my father, my King…” That Findekáno dared name Nolofinwë king was the boon needed to mark that morning of historical record. “My king,” Findekáno offered, “receive me your son and servant as I now wish to be known.” Findekáno swallowed thickly, the sentiment of the moment, of discovery- a weighty emotion.

The crowd was silent.

“How shall you be known?” Nolofinwë summoned.

Findekáno looked up to his father: “Fingon.”

)()()()(

That day marked many things: a shift, a different angle, a new paradigm. Darkness in the light. Light in the Darkness. It comes and goes, like the tides, surging and pulling back. Memory is a strange companion when it travels between the deep chasm of two ages that could not be further apart. Thusly would Turgon remember Fingon.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth is not supposed to attack during these early years because he sent up clouds of smoke, darkening Hithlum. I change this in my story.


	4. The In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

 

**Chapter 4: The In Between**

 

“What did you see and hear,” the dark figure demanded of the two figures crouched on the ground.

 

“There was an argument…” one of the small deformed figures spoke, glancing up nervously at the menacing figure. 

 

“…We could not hear what they were saying, our lord,” the other offered quickly.

 

The tall figure spin around causing the two creatures to cower, their hands raised over their head.

 

“But we saw them threaten one another, pull knives on each other,” the first spoke quickly, avoiding the punishment the menacing figure was surely going to administer.

 

This made the tall figure pause. “Tell me everything you saw.” The two described as best they could the details they saw from their hidden vantage point.

 

“Does this please our Elder King?”

 

Moringotto laughed. He _was_ pleased. “Leave,” he commanded the two creatures. He spared the spies’ lives this time. He could not lose assets that were valuable to him. The easy defeat of his host proved this. The appearance of the sun and moon struck fear in his servants, rendering them too easy to kill. That the elves were so fractured bode well for his plans. Planting seeds of doubt was too easy. The Valar left fertile ground in the First Born.

 

A demon like figure entered the dark throne room. “It is done our Elder King,” the person with eyes of fire announced. Moringotto’s pleasure grew. He would break the elves.

 

)()()()(

 

1st day of Reckoning.

 

Findekáno escaped to the large hall. The banners of the many houses united under Nolofinwë were proudly displayed. What should have given him comfort unsettled him. The throngs of people he walked through patting his back, smiling, showing signs of hope, of strength, was beyond what he could endure. A dark figure in a corner caught his eye. Findekáno turned his back. He had no desire to speak with anyone, choosing to seek solitude in the empty hall.

 

He heard footsteps approaching him: Artanis. He recognized her gait. Even though his back was to her, he could visualize her: her elegant gait, the way she carried her arms at her side, and her head carried high. Whatever she was going to say would not be welcome. They were too much alike. After the crossing, Findekáno disapproved of her traveling to see her relatives in Doriath, a place closed off to the rest of them. Elwë, in better times was friends with his grandfather, but the Sindarin King now known as Thingol was also brother to Olwë. If Thingol learned of the Kinslaying that would prove a third Elven faction for the elves.

 

“I was moved,” Artanis expressed, her voice musical and delicate.

 

Findekáno leaned against a table, gazing up at the standard of his father’s house, ignoring his cousin. Next to it was the standard of Arafinwë, now the standard of Findaráto yet unchanged. Artanis too looked upon the standards. Coming to stand next to him she looked from the standards to Findekáno. “You spoke of change, of a people remade.”

 

Findekáno did not go out of his way to acknowledge her, choosing instead to allow his blue eyes to meet the blue of hers. Besides their tallness, this is where the resemblance ended. Artanis was a pale beauty, befitting of an ice queen. Her hair spun of gold, her broad shoulders, once strong, protruded beneath her dress. Though they were no longer famished, their bodies were long on healing, slow to recover.

 

Artanis glanced briefly at the standards. “We are remade and yet…” she paused, looking shrewdly back at her cousin allowing the silence and the standards above speak for her.

 

Findekáno rubbed his face in frustration. “What would you have me do?” he finally spoke.

 

“Offer me more than platitudes.”

 

Findekáno sighed. It was plain for all to see that there was no standard for Lalwen, no standard for the widows of Lords of houses that had perished on the ice. And yet the standards of those dead elves were raised. Findekáno pushed himself off the table irritated by Artanis’ needling. “I am not the leader of this host.”

 

Artanis raised an elegant eyebrow. “Are you not a Prince of the Noldor? If not a leader, then what shall this Fingon be?”

 

Findekáno exhaled. The words that had come to him, gone.

 

“You reminded me of him, you know,” Artanis added those last words to make her observation seem less accusatory, more personal. “Your words have power.”

 

Findekáno stiffened. Artanis could not know, she had not been there. _Father!_ Makalaurë’s voice rang out in Findekáno’s mind. _No,_ Findekáno wanted to shout, but instead he found his rage a better consort, kicking a wooden chair, shattering it.

 

Artanis gasped, startled by Findekáno’s reaction.

 

Findekáno balled up his fists and gritted his teeth. He wanted some rest, some escape, needed space. He moved to stand in the shadows of the great hall, his back towards his cousin, though she could see the rise and fall of his breath. Artanis swore it seemed as if her fallen uncle now stood before her, a cold dread taking hold of her. Little could she know she was harnessing the strange prophetic magic she would learn to wield in these lands.

 

Fëanaro had been compelling, magnetic in their better days. These were not those days. Findekáno whispered, the only words he had left for Artanis: “These are darker days.”

 

The sound of the shattering chair caught the attention of others. Findaráto ran in from the outside. Accarrë stepped out of the shadows. Artanis did not intend this, but she did not know, could not know she touched the heart of Findekáno’s fear. She stared at her cousin, spooked by his uncharacteristic break. Turning to Accarrë and then back at Findekáno, she felt her friend’s hand on her back. Accarrë suffered sorrow for Artanis, for Findekáno, for all of them. They went from the exultation of Findekáno’s words, back to this uncertainty. They were rudderless.

  

Accarrë whispered to Artanis, “Your words are potent.” Artanis felt that rebuke. She had not intended to wound her cousin. 

 

Accarrë mouthed “no” to Findaráto who started to walk towards Findekáno. Findaráto stopped short. “Fin?” he spoke tentatively, softly. Findekáno took in a deep breath and walked away from his family, and into the day beyond the hall.

 

Artanis wanted to follow her cousin but knew there was nothing she could do. She felt impotent, a different rage growing in her. Findaráto exchanged glances with Artanis and Accarrë, seeing in them the same uncertainty he’d witnessed in Findekáno. Findaráto too was caught in its web. Words were not enough to herald what they now needed. Words had power, but they were simply not enough.

 

)()()()(

 

The Other side

 

Findekáno did not have the energy to muster the emotional work his anger desired. He left his family behind, knowing they would not follow him. They were tending their own wounds, finding their own path, and treading water. _Time_ was stolen from them. Imagine a thousand years of living as Findekáno only to have that stolen, pulled out from under you in a moment. Alqualondë, the Doom, all did this for them. During the crossing of the Ice, time became a different being, at once foe and absent. Absent in the way their focus shifted from the traditional expansiveness of elven time to the mere act of survival of the present where the more time marched on, the more their death was assured. Now they faced Time again and did not know how to make sense of what they had become and who to be.

 

For Findekáno, this new strange sense of time possessed him. It was illusive and unknowable: A first amidst a tapestry of discovery. It was not midday yet, but he found that the time between this moment and the earlier battle was immense. He’d had moments of reverie where he found rest, returning from the battle and offering his speech, but he was not so tired for time to slip between his fingers in this way, so he believed.  

 

The encampment was abuzz with activity. A few elves glanced his way while he walked the paths of the camp. In their eyes he saw something different, already distant from the moments of their congratulations. The most miniscule hope was waging within them, but they struggled to _believe_. He laughed. No one turned to look at him. They had once harkened to his uncle, to his words, and followed him to the shores of Aman, some killed for him, and all had been abandoned by him. Artanis was right. Findekáno offered nothing but platitudes.

 

Findekáno glimpsed his father’s close friend and ally, Calmacil, teaching a group of younger elves the art of the sword.  Everything around Findekáno was a paradox: from the new light that allowed them to see the world through seemingly new eyes to the meaning of memory in a people who harness it in exacting details. Findekáno was not a philosopher but he understood that memory was a burden, perhaps not into the future, but it most certainly weighed on them.

 

A young elf ran to Findekáno. “My lord, will you join us?” In the distance, Calmacil stood, leaning on the pommel of his sword. Findekáno cursed, “That bastard.” 

 

“My lord?” the young elf replied, surprised by the elder elf’s reply.

 

“Very well,” Findekáno replied, walking towards his mentor, the very man who had taught him to first use a sword. Arriving at the edge of the training ground, Findekáno spoke loudly and firmly: “Never lean on your sword.”

 

Calmacil grunted, gracefully flipping his sword into its scabbard. “Your lord remembers his lessons well,” the gruff elf responded. “Why do we never lean on our sword?” he asked his pupils.

 

Their answer was lost to Findekáno who tumbled into memory, recalling those lessons long ago. He had been but a child, in awe of his first sword, spending many a moment, whipping it through the air, fighting imaginary foes. Another memory: the first time his sword pierced an elven body. He could feel the weight of it in his hands, like a ghost haunting him. Findekáno’s memory took him to the ice. The face of his nephew screaming, crying as his parent held his arm down on a rock, the hands blackened and shriveled. Findekáno struck hard, ensuring a clean cut as the healers had directed. His nephew had fainted. Findekáno clutched at his side to find his sword, the sound of his sister-cousin’s wailing traveling into the present.

 

The younger elves did not find Findekáno’s spell alarming. Elven reverie whether for sleep or memory was a commonplace way that elves interacted. And yet it was new too, particularly the way sorrow would shadow the features.

 

Calmacil pulled his sword out, the sound of it stirring Findekáno. “Your sword, like your bow and arrow, are more than ornamentation. Along with your wits, they will keep you alive.” The young elves looked at their elder, contemplating their lessons.

 

 _A new people,_ Findekáno considered, observing the youths. Their memory of Aman would not be the burden it was for others. They would be the children of Exile. Endórë would offer her lessons alongside the darkness of Morgoth. Findekáno’s thoughts turned to the fallen Vala. He felt compelled to linger on the dark figure, his thoughts traversing the borders between light and shadow. The reason why soon became apparent: a lesson from Endórë announced itself, like a large wave crashing on the shore, a surge of power washed over them, dissipating to reveal its terror. Black magic.

 

“Moringotto,” Calmacil cursed.

 

Findekáno, always quick to act, cried out, “ _Ási,_ Come now!” Elves ran gathering weapons. Others scurried to ready fresh horses. Accarrë ran to Findekáno, bringing his battle armor. Together, they quickly put on his gear while he shouted orders. The scene was frantic. Elves were calling out, rushing about, preparing.

 

Nolofinwë strode through the encampment, helm at his side, offering words to calm and directing others to their posts. Findaráto walked with Nolofinwë, receiving orders from him, in between the words Nolofinwë shared with the crowds. Findekáno could not hear their exchange. Whatever it was sent his cousin into their growing armory, making it clear that Nolofinwë intended to ride.

 

Findekáno started to protest but Nolofinwë cut him short, holding his hand up. “Findaráto will organize the defenses here. “Calmacil, Findekáno,” Nolofinwë barked out, “bring a small company of your most capable fighters.” Nolofinwë was handed a horse, but before he mounted he spoke to Findekáno, “Make sure your people are rested.” Findekáno acknowledged his father’s command with a nod, though he did not like his father exposing himself. Calmacil jumped on the horse brought to him, taking his place next to Nolofinwë. Others lined up behind their king.

 

Findekáno shouted the names of elves and before long they were galloping, catching up with Nolofinwë’s vanguard. They charged ahead. The discordant song they chased was not newly made. Whatever had caused the havoc was at least a day old, but somehow Moringotto had managed to quell it, keep it from their ears. The source of the broken chords came from a nearby settlement of Grey elves, a hamlet that was readying itself to migrate into Melian’s girdle.

 

The horses came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them smoke from the village started to rise where it had not been before. Findekáno caught a whiff of something. He was not the only one. Findekáno charged ahead, Accarrë and Aikanáro at his side. The remainder of the company surrounded the village, some on horse, others on foot. The scorched village was empty. The haphazard contents here and there painted the picture of the quick skirmish that had occurred. The scent they encountered before entering the village was further away. Findekáno let his horse delicately step around the charred earth of the village and towards the field the foul smell came from.

 

Nolofinwë was stopped ahead, where a narrow path opened up into the small meadow. Findekáno turned to Accarrë. She shook her head. She could sense no enemies in the area, but they remained wary. Findekáno rode ahead, pushing his horse through the dense trees. The bright sun met him as he crossed the border from the trees into the field.

 

Burned remains. Charred remains sprinkled with a white powder. All dead. Findekáno slid off his horse. He walked through the field. Children, Adults, chickens, horses, dogs…. everything. He walked around the remains careful not to step over them, not to repeat the crude way they stepped over dead enemies. It was a small respect he could pay to them. There was no song here. The smell of burned flesh was pungent, stinging his nose. This was a new scent. Never before had they smelled charred elf flesh. It smelled decidedly different than that of game.

 

Calmacil and Aikanáro scouted beyond the field, finding nothing but the retreating steps of the few that had committed this atrocity and steps that indicated a few elves had escaped. “They came in the cover of night. Caught them by surprise,” Calmacil informed Nolofinwë. “Some elves escaped, took to the trees.”

 

Nolofinwë shook his head, his face grim. He dismounted and carefully walked amongst the dead. Soon they were accompanied by the remainder of their company. Those that stood at the periphery openly cried. Calmacil too shed tears.

 

Findekáno knelt before the remains of a child. Gently he touched the remains of a dog at the child’s side. The remains disintegrated into ash, so hot had been the fire that consumed it. Not all were lucky to be thus consumed, leaving behind charred flesh, colors of rawness protruding here and there.

 

“Whatever fire claimed them was unnatural,” Nolofinwë spoke somberly to his people, observing the horror on their faces, feeling it knot up his stomach.

 

Findekáno inclined his head, saying a prayer, and then touched the child, the remains collapsing into ash. A cold wind swept through the meadow, whipping the ash remains up into the air. The particles caught the light of the sun so they looked like snow. Soon the earth was covered in the ash and settled on the elves. Accarrë desperately tried to get the ash off her clothes, too much a reminder of the pouch she kept as unholy kindle. She was not the only one. The elven horses were becoming despondent, the smell of death overcoming them in the absence of their masters’ calming connection.

 

Speaking to Calmacil, Nolofinwë directed, “I need someone to leave no stone unturned.”

 

“Aikanáro and I will scout,” Findekáno spoke, his attention on Calmacil.

 

Accarrë’s eyes grew wide, “You cannot.”

 

“It is not for you to decide. You will ride back with my father as will Calmacil. We shall not leave the king exposed.”

 

Calmacil ordered his people to their horses. “To our King.” Hastily the elves mounted. “And what of you?” Calmacil responded before departing.

 

“I follow my duty,” Findekáno answered. Nolofinwë wanted to override his son, but chose to hold back his words. Exchanging a look with Calmacil instead, Nolofinwë gathered the elves and they rode back to their encampment, heavy with images of such needless loss, enraged at the evilness of Morgoth, and afraid, very afraid.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno tracked the steps until it was wise to go no further. “Balrogs,” Aikanáro whispered, tracing the demon imprint on the wet earth.

 

Behind him Findekáno was crouched over the shape of a human step that showed the first signs of transformation. “How is such a thing possible?” Findekáno breathed.

 

Aikanáro came to stand next to him. “Maiar,” he whispered, answering Findekáno. Findekáno glanced up at Aikanáro. “Moringotto has more Maiar than we anticipated.”

 

Aikanáro cast a weary look into the dark forest ahead. “They will soon be fully formed Malkarauki, but they are not yet fire demons, though these spirits possess fire. Let us leave here for I sense a darkness.” Findekáno did too.

 

Before long they neared the village. Aikanáro broke the silence that had lingered since they retreated from their search of the fire demons responsible for the massacre. “Those being were powerful enough to slaughter a village of _Úmanyar._ ”

 

Findekáno gritted his teeth. Morgoth sent the fledgling Malkarauki to attack the village knowing if he sent them against the Noldor they would be vanquished. The smell in the air was acid-like, pungent, in that way that bodies smell when burnt. “His thralls are weak so he sends them against those that he can hurt.” Morgoth did not want to expend such precious weapons, but he could use them to hurt the Noldor, nonetheless.

 

Instead, Morgoth sent out a rabble of useless orcs against the Noldor, knowing he was sending these creatures to slaughter. “He tested us,” Findekáno growled.

 

Aikanáro guessed as much. “And what did he learn?” Findekáno’s cousin asked, knowing that Morgoth had outwitted them.

 

“Too much” Findekáno admitted, the ghost of Makalaurë’s throat against his knife, pulsating on this thumbs.

 

They heard cries. Findekáno and Aikanáro rushed ahead, making sure to conceal their approach, sure of what they would find in the field. Findekáno’s steps faltered, the wailing was too familiar, obliging him to recall how he had been the source of pain that fateful day in Alqualondë.

 

The few survivors briefly looked up, startled by the two elves that entered the field. One of the elves stood up from where he had been crying over remains. “You have no right to be here,” he managed to say between sobs. “Leave.” The few other elves found their feet, focusing their anger and desperation on the unwelcome Noldor. “Hear him” a woman cried out. “Leave,” she managed to say. “You are harbingers of death. These demons come from your lands and seek you out!” Another elf walked menacingly towards them.

 

Aikanáro and Findekáno raised their hands to their hearts in respect and turned to leave the elves to tend their dead. By turning their backs on the elves, Aikanáro and Findekáno showed deference to the Grey elves, demonstrating that their anger was merited. If the Sindar wished to retaliate they would be in their right to attack the Noldor from behind.

 

Quietly they walked away from the field, through the village and back on the path they came on. The smell did not diminish. Neither said a word to the other. After a while they met up with their horses. Aikanáro took time to examine Findekáno. He did not like what he saw in his cousin. 

 

Before Aikanáro could say anything, Findekáno commanded, “Take her.”

 

Aikanáro retorted, “I will not leave you here.”

 

“You will,” Findekáno hissed, his eyes empty of the tears that should be there because he was bereft of the emotions that allowed it. But always, his eyes shone brightly with the Light of the Two Trees, and it was brighter in rage. Findekáno was indeed a harbinger of death: frightening, imposing. This is what those elves must have seen in both of them. Their Noldorin kin were alien, distant, and dangerous.

 

Aikanáro yielded. He too could not think straight, his mind reeling from what they had just seen. Such was the ability of reckless murder, its darkness a poison. Findekáno turned to walk away but not before Aikanáro shared, “I will make sure your father finds you.”  Findekáno hesitated for a moment, a sliver of his emotions reminding him Aikanáro had no mother or father to comfort him. Closing his eyes, Findekáno forged ahead, unsure where he needed to go.

 

)()()()(

 

 

 _Your words were moving, well done. Good to have you back. You were as I remembered. You reminded me of him. Father. Leave! Leave! You are harbingers of death!_  A chaos of words filled him, traversing between the extent of what the day had been: from arriving victorious and sharing inspiring words to Artanis’ words, and finally the accusations laid at his feet by the Sindar.

 

The trees spun, the light stung his eyes. The earth beneath Findekáno shifted. His speech, it was just words, he reminded himself, the image of the burned bodies seared in memory. Good words but empty, powerless in the face of such vileness. The congratulations heartfelt, but empty. The accusations, truer words. Why had he not spoken of darkness, of the way he relished the feel of his hands crushing bone. Did those demons relish their death bringing or was it mere instinct? He could have yelled of the treachery of their kin that cursed them to take the path across the ice. Instead he chose cowardly words. _I cannot be the leader father desires_ , he chided himself. Artanis, the Sindar, were right in doubting him, Kinslayer. Findekáno covered his eyes with his hands, his body desperately searching for a way to make sense of the gritty emotion that threatened to cleave him from within. With his calloused fingers he elicited pain. It reminded him of his status amongst the living. He spoke of being remade. He laughed. _I am too broken to be remade._ Fingon could never come to be. If his father knew how unhinged he had become he would not have asked him to speak. But Nolofinwë was also broken. What madness had they inherited?

 

Doom. _Fëanáro, this how you were driven to madness_!

 

Findekáno’s body was spent, his energy dissipating as water on hot rock. Would he fade? Is that what this was? And yet he knew that darker words would have also been well received by Nolofinwë’s host. He understood that he had the power to lead his people, like Fëanáro had, through the eye of the needle and into utter despair for they were all made of it now. The Sindar were right to fear them. And the dead? The burned child, his nephew, Arakáno, all dead or maimed but for the Doom! Findekáno cried out, damning the Valar. Elenwë, the countless faces that kept him awake and crept out of the dark corners and shadows were lost, but for the arrogance of gods. The contents of his stomach came up, again. Like they had when he had come down from the frenzy of killing elves across the Seas in that bay he would never look upon again.

 

His body retched, but he was spent. His muscles contracted. He desperately needed silence, but it was loud. Endórë announced itself around him: water running over rocks in a creek, birds chirping, squirrels scurrying up trees, insects testing their wings, the slight breeze in the trees. “Stop!” he cried out, but it would not let up. Life surged on, birth and death and decay. “Enough,” he sobbed. Findekáno could not see beyond the light, he turned desperately to find quietness, to darkness but could not find it, not the blackness he desired, a blank slate empty of the faces that haunted him. To forget, to feel numb. Neither hate nor love. He spun around, desperate, blinded, looking. Suddenly he tripped lurching backward, falling onto his back.

 

The trees around him closed in, hunching over, studying him. A squirrel paused and looked at him with squirrelish curiosity, its nose sniffing the air in his direction. All was not right with their elven brother.

 

Findekáno tore into the earth with his hands. It was wet with life and decay. The numbness would not come. Instead tears came. They tore through him, worse than the heaving, worse than darkness. The carved a path through memory and bone. Nearly defeated he rolled over onto his stomach, rising onto his knees and hands, his hair full of leaves. The nausea came with the tears. Somehow his body found strength to pull his ribs in and convulse out whatever terror he held inside. Findekáno groaned, his voice hoarse from the bile that burned his throat. It happened too often. He had taken to drinking teas and the honey they found from nearby nests to soothe his throat, but the bile would rise and he would spit it out. They all carried such ailments, no longer elven strong in body. The Ice exacted life, and sanity.

 

The Doom. Ash like fallen snow. Cold.

 

A loud thrum of thunder and fire rolled across the skies. The skies darkened. Damnation must be coming, Findekáno feverishly believed. Heaving again and again, Findekáno fell back against the earth. His tears came, streaking his dirty face, falling to the earth, wetting the soil. A bright light pierced the sky followed by a booming that rumbled deep down into the earth. The smell of the fertile soil nauseated him, mocked him. He wished for death. His body convulsed again and again, each time the effects lessening. There was only so much that his muscles could do. Findekáno’s breathing was shallow, but he was still one of the Eldar. He pulled himself into a stupor, collecting as best he could the tendrils of him that pulsated weakly against the vitality of Endórë. The ice, he remembered. So cold. His heart slowed, the warmth of his hands dissipated. He found stillness.

 

)()()(

 

Beyond the grove stood Nolofinwë, his face pressed against the bark of the tree. Why did he ask so much of Findekáno? He spoke as a leader when he should act as a father. Nolofinwë carried his own pain, his own regret and guilt, and he carried the burden of his children’s hurt. That mattered more to him in this moment, more than his people, but this too was fleeting. He cursed Fëanáro. “ _Half- Brother in name, full brother in heart_!” Nolofinwë spat out, damning the forgiveness he offered once. Hearing Findekáno struggle with his pain, broke him, again and again, but he could not do anything for his son, like he could not save those poor souls that met such an ugly end. The Noldor were damaged creatures, desperate to find a sense of who they were. Speeches alone were not enough. How does one go forward when your sense of self has been so absolutely shattered?

 

Gritting his teeth Nolofinwë cursed the Valar, each of his brothers, his wife, his father, Moringotto. With each utterance, he found anger that he could use to make himself stand up straight. Anger allowed him to turn away from Findekáno, walk back to the camp, and return to being leader they needed amidst such horror. There was only enough for that. Nolofinwë’s strength was finite. Findekáno was strong. He had to believe in that.  Nolofinwë told himself he was not sacrificing him, too. Not his first born, his bright, brash son who now weathered darkness and said too few words. Nolofinwë summoned Námo’s words, brought them to be, whispering them. They gave him strength to retreat and walk away from Findekáno: _Tears Unnumbered you ye shall shed._ “So we shall,” Nolofinwë spoke, his voice muffled by the stirring sounds of the storm. The thunder boomed, the clouds closed in over Nolofinwë.  Endórë would bring Findekáno back from the gloom he was consumed in. She would wash away the dirt on his face and cleanse his hands. Endórë was Findekáno. She would save him, help him become Fingon. In his anger, Nolofinwë knew, at least, this was true.

 

Nolofinwë reached the edge of their camp that was much changed from the Fëanorian outpost that had been left to them. Buildings had been erected. Storage rooms filled with caches of food and grains. Meats were cured, water stored, fibers woven into much needed cloth. Hides tanned and furs readied to be made into heavy cloaks for the winter that would come. Nolofinwë’s host understood the cold intimately. Nolofinwë needed to speak to Lalwen, but he was hindered.

 

“Father,” Turukáno stopped Nolofinwë.

 

“Turno,” Nolofinwë answered, setting aside his thoughts.

 

“Where is Findekáno,” Turukáno said, almost a threat.

 

Nolofinwë glanced at his son. Their relationship had not weathered the ice well. Turukáno had begged him to stay and look for Elenwë, to devote their people to find her, but Nolofinwë had ordered them to move on. Of course Turukáno’s requests were born from desperation, but Turukáno was nevertheless hurt by his father’s decision. It was unfair on his part, Turukáno understood this. His father’s decision was rational and what was best, but Turukáno hated it nonetheless. He could not be the filial son he had once been.

 

Nolofinwë glanced back in the direction of where he had left his eldest. “He will return when he is ready.” Nolofinwë made to keep walking but Turukáno stepped in front of him, stilling his step.

 

“Where is he,” Turukáno demanded, having spoken to Aikanáro, knowing the fragile state of his brother and what the horror they had encountered might unleash in him.

 

Nolofinwë observed the manner in which Turukáno’s eyes were narrowed and red, his jaw tense. Noticed that his long dark hair was bound up messily at his neck, his clothes worn. Turukáno always looked tired, like he had come from grieving. Nolofinwë tentatively reached up to touch Turukáno’s cheek. Turukáno allowed the tenderness but it did not change his countenance. Sighing, Nolofinwë answered, “He is in the thicket by the small creek.”

 

“You left him there?” Turukáno accused.

 

“What would you have me do, Turukáno,” Nolofinwë breathed, _what would you have me do Turukáno, order every soul into that water to find her?_ While Findekáno fell into his own darkness, Turukáno avoided his own by caring for others, those he believed he could save. Irissë preoccupied herself being Itarillë’s mother, never mourning the child she had lost: a child Tyelkormo did not know of. These were pains and sorrows Nolofinwë could not tend. Bitterly, Nolofinwë understood why he gave himself to anger, not daring to allow himself to explore a wretchedness as Findekáno did, could not allow himself to save his children because he would have nothing left for his people that followed him across the Ice. Hence Nolofinwë poured himself into making his people a home, even if it was imperfect. He would see this done.

 

Turukáno abruptly left his father’s side without a word, heading in the direction Nolofinwë had left Findekáno. Looking back at Turukáno’s retreating figure, Nolofinwë felt regret. His children deserved their father, not an uncrowned King.

 

_…not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains…_

 

“Námo be damned,” Nolofinwë spoke aloud.

 

)()()()(

 

Findekáno caught his breath, taking in his surroundings. He sat up. He was drenched, everything muddy. Blinking, his vision cleared. Findekáno groaned, he was sore from the retching and he was starved.

 

“Fingon,” a voice materialized from within the trees. It was Turukáno. His hood was thrown over him, keeping the rain from his face. It was obvious that he had been there for some time. His cloak was soaked. Turukáno walked over, his boots sloshing through puddles and mud. Turukáno reached down and offered his hand to his brother.

 

Findekáno wiped away the mud on his hands. Hesitantly, he extended his hand to his brother. Turukáno pulled him up. “Why have you come,” Findekáno objected.

 

“Someone needs to watch over you,” Turukáno replied, observing his brother’s weakened state.

 

Findekáno laughed bitterly, “Am I not Fingon?” Fingon, harbinger of death was certainly fitting.

 

Turukáno placed a tentative hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was always startling to feel the bone on him. For a thousand of years he had felt Findekáno, his strength; there was a surety to it: the way Findekáno got caught up in life, embracing it. Turukáno invariably found comfort in the feel of Findekáno, his optimism, the intensity of his bright blue eyes, so unlike his own grey eyes. This man before him was not that. “Becoming,” Turukáno finally answered, aware that he was getting to know this man anew.

 

Findekáno was exhausted, for once permitting himself to lean into his brother. “Words are meaningless.”

 

“Walk with me,” Turukáno murmured, mindful of where his brother’s thoughts took him. Findekáno had blood on his hands. He tried to atone for the Kinslaying by pouring himself into the protection of their peoples, tried to keep the ugliness of killing and death at bay from as much of the host as he could. His brother’s company, all Kinslayers, took this oath on, and it was driving them to madness.

 

Findekáno acceded, permitting his brother to guide his steps. The brothers walked in silence, the rain turning to a drizzle. Findekáno’s words had to mean something, the horror of the massacre of Grey elves difficult to process. “I believe them,” Turukáno stated, knowing that there was truth in brother’s words.

 

Findekáno paused, turning to face his gaunt brother. “I will never be who I was.”

 

“No you will not. None of us will,” Turukáno said. “You doubt your words, but there was truth in them.”

 

“We fool ourselves,” Findekáno replied, walking ahead, though he stumbled, dizzy from hunger and exhaustion, both bodily and mentally.

 

Turukáno placed a strong guiding hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I have to believe,” Turukáno whispered, his words barely audible. It was difficult for him to reveal his own private agony.

 

 _Itarillë_. Findekáno breathed, but what of that other child? “Do we not do more harm to those that depend on us by offering a fool’s hope?” Findekáno debated.  

 

Turukáno smiled bitterly. “It’s all I have.”

 

Findekáno flinched. It’s all they had: Doom. “Forgive me,” Findekáno choked out. Turukáno could not offer his brother forgiveness. They both silently acknowledged this in the manner in which they behaved around the other, the few exchange of words between them. It was not fair, but it was what they had between them.

 

Instead, Turukáno led Findekáno down a different path. Findekáno wanted to complain but he would do this for his brother, suffer the pain and light headedness that washed over him for whatever Turukáno needed to happen. Findekáno knew the route. They walked up towards a bluff that looked through the valley that split the Mountains of Mithrim and beyond, down the Firth of Drengist and out onto the Sea. The sea glistened in the distance. Turukáno looked out over the expanse of land and to the water beyond. Elven sight was a marvel for the Men that would soon come into the lives of the elves.  

 

“There,” Turukáno pointed to Mount Taras in the distance that tumbled into the sea. “That is where I will build a settlement.”

 

Findekáno moved closer to Turukáno. Perhaps it was better Turukáno take Itarillë away, but he cared for it not. To come this distance only to be divided once more. Findekáno answered, “I knew you would leave us soon.”

 

Turukáno nodded. “Father will build at the eastern slopes of Erid Wethrin,” Turukáno shared. Findekáno knew this; he had scouted the area after all. “I will help him raise the fortress, but I will not stay,” Turukáno said this not for Findekáno, but for himself, needing to know that what he desired was not entirely selfish. _And I cannot forgive you._

 

Indeed, Findekáno could not offer Turukáno the absolution he sought, nor could Turukáno offer Findekáno the forgiveness he desired. This dilemma would continue to haunt the Noldor and it would end in the closing of this First Age, such was the power of history held in these two brother’s hands.

 

Findekáno turned his attention back to the shores, to the West, compelled by the song of the water beyond. It brought him some stillness to hear this song and not the jarring notes of fiery death. The East was now home. The West was closed.

 

Turukáno tracked the direction of Findekáno’s sight, heard the same song in the sea, suffered the same Doom. But Turukáno needed to believe that he could save his daughter from it, save her from the fate of the children of the Sindarin village. “See the tides?” Turukáno directed Findekáno’s attention, quieting the melody of the waters. “Do you see it?” Turukáno asked, his voice more urgent, finding a different story in the sea.

 

“See what?” Findekáno asked, unsure what his brother wanted him to find.

 

Turukáno observed the water recede and rush in. Findekáno followed suit. They stood there for what in the accounting of Men was but hours, enough for realization to dawn on Findekáno.

 

“The tides,” Findekáno whispered. “They are all different!”

 

“Yes,” Turukáno offered. “It’s the moon,” he continued, not offering much more in the way of information, knowing Findekáno would understand.

 

“Of course,” Findekáno whispered.

 

They stood on the bluff watching the tide retreat, the water line fall back, revealing white pebbles that gleamed under the sun. Something in the way the light caught the pebbles compelled them both to think of another shore, another seaside strewn with gems. Always the story returning to the same fateful moment that changed their history as a people.

 

“You suffer,” Turukáno broke the charged silence, acknowledging the burden Findekáno carried. He could not forgive him but he could find compassion for Findekáno.

 

“We all do,” Findekáno admitted.

 

Turukáno’s shoulders sagged, his eyes closed. “But for my daughter I would have allowed myself to die.” Turukáno wanted Elenwë back, wanted her body, her bones, needed a grave site, somewhere he could mourn for her, instead of the image of her body floating, lingering in the icy dark depths of the Sea.

 

Findekáno turned to his brother, unable to offer an answer that promised healing. Did he not also desire the escape of death?

 

“Itarillë finds joy in the sea and so I shall give it to her.” Turukáno smiled thinly. His eyes were red, the creases around his eyes marked deeply. Turukáno did not expect his brother to respond, knowing that whatever haunted his brother claimed his words, but Turukáno could not bear to see his brother this way. In spite of it all Turukáno had to believe that Findekáno would not die, did not desire it as he did: not bright and beautiful Findekáno. It was enough to lose Elenwë to the Ice, but to witness his brother so changed was too much a reminder of all they had lost.

 

“I found you, earlier.” Turukáno admitted, had watched over his brother for hours. “You were cold like death, your eyes open, but for all the world, it was as if you were dead.” In those hours he stood watch over him, Turukáno understood that he needed Findekáno to thrive, if only as a testament to their will.

 

Findekáno lowered his gaze to the ground. He had not wanted to put his pain on Turukáno. What could he say to him? The truth of his darkest thoughts, admit how utterly weak he was?

 

“You are not alone,” Turukáno gently reminded his brother.

 

“Perhaps I did die today.” Findekáno admitted, relying on words he had spoken before.

 

“You said as much to us,” Turukáno replied. Never one for seeking or speaking to the prophetic, Turukáno was nevertheless compelled to remind his brother that the Eldar were bound to Arda marred: “Endórë took you today.”

 

Findekáno stumbled to find words until a throbbing in his hand found its way to his senses. He observed the wound on his palm. “We do not understand the price of the old ceremonies,” Findekáno conceded.

 

“We do not,” Turukáno agreed.

 

 “I am spent,” Findekáno spoke, ceding to the desire of his body for food and rest.

 

Turukáno pulled Findekáno into an embrace. Findekáno stiffened, but Turukáno would not let up. “I tire,” Findekáno whispered, his voice hoarse, betraying a constellation of terrible emotions.

 

“Fingon,” Turukáno soothed, willing his brother to find another path, make peace with the dark that dwelt within.

 

Findekáno exhaled, his eyes catching the gleam of the sun on the water. The water was far out from shore. In Alqualondë the tides never receded so far.

 

 “You chose a good name,” Turukáno said, observing the dance of the light on the waves.

 

Findekáno smiled. He did not deserve such kindness, such mercy. “Turgon,” he replied in kind. The brothers found a way around forgiveness.

 

Turukáno laughed weakly. He too was spent. Undoubtedly a new name would come to him. He had considered this very one, but now hearing it from Findekáno, it sounded right and did not betray who he had been.

 

In this, the brothers were different in their search for a name. Turgon would build a city by the sea, a testament to his wife’s memory. If he could not find her body and bury her then he would build her white towers, soaring into the sky, so that perhaps her spirit might see it from the Halls she walked. Fingon, for his part, would find a faltering balance between the darkness and light, and Endórë would find a way to save him, if only for an Age.

 

They walked back to their camp by the lake. Fingon and Turgon stopped to forage for berries and mushrooms to quell Fingon’s hunger momentarily. At dusk, they found themselves at the border of their camp. “Shall we,” Turgon stretched out his arm. Fingon took hold of it. Together they crossed through the stone gate and into their new, impermanent home.

 

Nolofinwë spied them from across the field in the middle of the camp. There was a peace to them. Relieved he returned his attention to the crops being tended by Itarillë.

 

Nearing the kitchens, Irissë grabbed Fingon’s arm. “Come, you look famished,” she gently ordered. Looking at Turgon, she directed, “And you, to bed.” A ghost of a smile materialized on Fingon’s face. They were stealing a familiar moment in an utterly changed landscape.

 

Turgon yawned, stretching out his arms. His sister’s command actually sounded appealing. Turgon marched to his room, removing his cloak and boots, followed by his wet trousers. His dry tunic he left on. He climbed into the bed and pulled a blanket over him. He fell into a deep sleep, his eyes even closing. And for the first time since she was lost, he dreamt of Elenwë walking along the shores of the place that would be his new home and he felt a quietness.

 

)()()(

 

“Memory has the power of gravity…Those that have memory are capable of living in the fragile present. Those that don’t, do not live in any place.”

 

-Patricio Guzmán from _Nostalgia for the Light_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Úmanyar- elves that did not reach the Blessed Realm and behold the light of the two trees.


	5. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was not in the original planning of this story as was a certain part of the story contained within it. It caught me by surprise, but sometimes characters go in ways that I don't expect and I'm like, why not?

**Chapter 5: Forgiveness**

 

Irissë pulled Fingon into the kitchens, moving baskets filled with recently harvested foods. As they made their way through the maze, she picked up a plate and began loading it with food: fresh bread, recently churned butter, heavy cream, berries, and smoked fish. She found a flagon and filled it with a fresh batch of ale from a nearby barrel. With her foot, she pushed Fingon into a stool at a table that still had flour spread on it. Setting the mug next to Fingon, she retrieved a small besom and swept aside the flour, careful not to sweep any of the flour onto the floor. Satisfied the table was clean she set the plate on it and proceeded to wait for Fingon to eat.

 

Fingon hesitated. He should offer some words to his sister. Shaking his head, answering his internal chatter, Fingon decided to eat. Satisfied that her brother was eating, Irissë finished cleaning up the flour and carefully filling a basket lined with waxed cloth, glancing up periodically to watch Fingon eat. It was the best receptacle she could find. The making of kitchen tools offered to be a bigger task than anyone would have believed. They had bartered and traded precious gems for many items from the neighboring Sindarin elves and received a trivial offer from Thingol, but the Noldor were industrious, possessed of nimble hands and mind, so they made quick gains.

 

Fingon ate the hearty portions on his plate. Eyeing the ale, he had doubts about whether to drink it. Irissë pulled up a stool next to her brother. “I’ll be the first to use it,” Irissë said, filling a clay mug with ale. “Do you like it?” she turned to her brother, taking a sip. The ale left a foamy mustache on her upper lip. “So good,” she hummed.

 

_The ale or the mug_? Fingon considered.

 

“The mug of course,” Irissë answered, guessing her brother’s thoughts. “Who knew I’d have a knack for making clay dishes.” Fingon tentatively reached for the large flagon in front of him. “Lalwen brewed the beer,” Irissë informed him. She talked like this, filling her brother in on the smaller details of life in their new home while he sipped the ale. It was delicious, its aroma filling his nose with the smell of the hops that they had found stored in the food caches the Fëanorians had left for them. Noticing Fingon’s eyes beginning to droop Irissë carefully set aside her mug. Taking a deep breath, she asked what she had not dared ask until this moment. “Did you speak with Tyelko.”

 

Not a question, Fingon deduced. Instead of an answer he raised an eyebrow. She had not spoken to Accarrë, though Fingon doubted Accarrë would say anything of Tyelko to Irissë.

 

“Do not give me your silent treatment,” Irissë bristled. “I need…to know,” she faltered. She felt helpless, trapped even.

 

Fingon let his chin drop on his chest. He was tired. “I did,” he admitted. Irissë scooted closer. Fingon sighed, sharing, “He did not ask for you. We spoke of battle plans. I insulted him and it went over his head.” This made Irissë laugh, but she did not interrupt her brother who was famous for his lack of words. “He attempted to aim an arrow at me but Accarrë was quicker and put a dagger to his throat.”

 

“What?” Irissë cried out, almost falling out of her stool.

 

Fingon waved off her concern. “Heat of the battle stuff. I’m sure Accarrë will fill you in.”

 

“I would ask her to do no such thing,” Irissë retorted, knowing that Tyelko was an unspeakable thing between them.

 

Fingon shrugged.

 

“Bastard,” Irissë hit Fingon. Irissë stood up abruptly, sending the stool flying back. “You think you are the only one that has suffered? How dare you treat me as your lesser.”

 

Fingon let out a groan. He’d not meant, but… “Spare me your pain, Findekáno, you are not the only one that is crushed,” she accused him. Fingon reached out to grab Irissë’s hand. She slapped it away: “Don’t.”  She walked away from him.

 

Fingon stood up to go after her. “Irissë,” he soothed, reaching out for her, but she slapped his hand away harder.

 

“Stop,” her voice cracked, but in her eyes was anger. They all treated her as if she would up and vanish into the air. None of them spoke of it, referred to it, named it- her loss.

 

Fingon did not let up, wrapping his arms around her. She was bones in his arms, stronger, but not healed. Fingon tried remembering when he had last embraced his sister this fully. It had been before they crossed.  Irissë too remembered. She had not felt her brother’s embrace since before they left Aman, when they saw the ships burning. He held her then for they both shared in the betrayal of those fires.

 

Irissë collapsed into Fingon’s arms, weeping. Fingon held her tighter, learning anew what it meant to be there for someone in this way. He rubbed her back, held her as her sorrow was unleashed. She felt frail to him, her loss unimaginable in the scope of everything they had been through. Her loss, the first of its kind for her people, happened so early during their journey across the ice, that it seemed to belong to another story. She marked history and memory in a manner that would not be noted. And so the story of Irissë’s first loss never made it into to the grand narratives of the Helcaraxë and the First Age, sanitized stories of Elven glory and might.

 

Fingon pulled away from his sister so he could look her in the eyes. “Come with me,” he whispered, “I do not wish to be alone,” revealing some of the things he dared not admit before. Irissë did not resist, allowing Fingon to lead her back through the kitchen and into the night.

 

The stars were bright, the half-moon like a jewel in the sky, resplendent. They walked to the many trees within the encampment. Fingon pushed his sister up the tree and into its sturdy branches where he had fashioned a comfortable bed on top of a flet, a design Fingon borrowed from the Laiquendi. Irissë found her voice amidst her tears. “Really?” Her brother’s choice of bed was so essentially Findekáno that it was both amusing and heartbreaking. Fingon smiled wanly. Irissë rolled over on his bed onto her back. The view took her breath. Fingon flopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her.

 

“Rilmien,” Irissë murmured, “her name…” she sobbed. Fingon closed his eyes. Irissë trembled against him as the grieving took hold. Fingon remembered the last time she wept so deeply, that dark first year they spent on the ice.

Fingon kissed his sister on the forehead. “Rilmien,” he repeated reverently, giving name to the baby that did not survive a fortnight on the ice. Slowly her sobs receded, leaving her spent. Fingon felt warm against her, reminding her of their time on the ice, when they would sleep together for warmth.

 

“Tell me what happened out there,” Irissë asked.  Nolofinwë had forbidden people from revealing too many of the details of the massacre to her, but Irissë was astute and managed to put bits and pieces together. “I do not need to be treated as if I will break.” Irissë shared, angry that her agency was but a shadow of what it had once been. Fingon pressed his mouth against her temple. “Forgive me,” he lamented his own participation in her caging. Nolofinwë’s people did not know how to tend to Irissë’s loss, so great and unimaginable it had been: such was their fate.

 

Irissë shivered. “I do not need your pity.” She said this not only for Fingon but for her father, for the lot of them that could not look her in the eye without the compassion they thought they held for her. Irissë believed that behind that compassion was also judgement, but most withheld it for Irissë’s punishment had been greater.

 

“I know,” Fingon soothed, adding, “nor I yours.”

 

Irissë held her breath. She did pity him, saw in him the same disgust she felt for herself. Her people were right to judge her.

 

Fingon stirred next to her, “Irissë, look!” Irissë glanced up to the sky and saw a trio of falling stars light up the night sky. Fingon whispered, stirred by the stars’ spectacular death, “She guides us!”

 

Irissë was once more overcome with emotion, remembering the brief moments she shared with her Rilmien, glittering light, so named for the light of the stars that infrequently penetrated the mists and fogs of the Helcaraxë during the darkness of the ice, the only hope that dared to pierce that icy wasteland. Irissë curled up close to Fingon and watched the stars; they were bright and clear. Next to her Fingon’s eyes closed. Deep sleep found him and he dreamt of a golden-haired child laughing, dancing. He understood, that one day, he would meet her, Rilmien.

 

)()()()(

 

1497: Before the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

 

A hooded figure moved amongst Nolofinwë’s camp in Araman in search of someone. The elf had a frantic energy about them, looking through groups of people, peering in the makeshift tents that had been quickly erected. Whoever or whatever they were looking for was not to be found, but the figure kept on in the darkness of the Long Night. The Darkening of Valinor at least aided this elf keep themselves hidden in the shadows, until he spotted her. She was luminous not only because of her white clothes but because like all of the Eldar, she radiated a brightness, a light that Tyelkormo knew intimately.  

 

Tyelkormo was careful to keep his identity secret. Not eagerly did Nolofinwë follow his father, and less eager and less love was there in the followers of Nolofinwë of Fëanáro’s people. There was no turning back; the Kinslaying, the Oath, and so much more converged upon the Noldor who were beginning their exile. Fëanáro’s host and a number of Nolofinwë’s host was leaving on the ships as part of the first group. The ships, it was expected by Nolofinwe and his people, would return and take the larger host across the sea to Beleriand. Nolofinwë’s host was readying itself to leave. The horses that had come with his host were being led to a ship.

 

Tyelko was in charge of this but he took his leave to go into Nolofinwë’s camp. Hidden behind his hood, Tyelko waited for Irissë to walk away from the group she had been talking to that included Turukáno and Elenwë. As soon as she walked away he discretely followed her until he found the opportune moment—a private space between tents and carriages filled with foods and other crates. Before he could speak she turned to look at him.

 

“What do you want Tyelko.” Her eyes glared at him.

 

“I needed to see you Irissë.”

 

“Now you desire to see me?” she retorted.

 

“Come with me on the ships with my father’s host,” he spoke, betraying what he swore he would not do.

 

“Are you mad?” Irissë seethed, taking a hold of his cloak. “After everything, you come to me now, in this moment?” She was incredulous. Tyelko had lost his senses.

 

“I know,” Tyelko admitted, grabbing Irissë’s hands and pulling her closer into him. She resisted, but he kept her close, whispering desperate words. “Listen to me Irissë, I know not what will come. I do not want to lose you. I made a mistake walking away from you before.”

 

Instead of pulling away she stood on her tiptoes so she could be eye to eye with Tyelko. “Too late for mistakes, Tyelko,” she recriminated him. “You swore an oath.”

 

Tyelkormo pleaded with her, “Please, listen to me. It is all so mad and frenzied, I know not what to think, how to think. But amidst it all, my feelings for you have not changed. Irissë, I love you,” Tyelko begged, his eyes bright with tears. His father’s words, spoken in secret to some of his sons, were a warning to Tyelko, and in a moment of desperation as he guided the horses onto the ship he knew he would never see her again if his father’s plans materialized.

 

Irissë caught her breath, “You tell me this, here, now?” She was irate. How dare Tyelko do this to her now? “Was it not enough that I rejected your marriage proposal? You want me to follow you?!” she added, in shock and disbelief.

 

“Hear me,” Tyelko begged. “I could not bear it if I lost you.”

 

“You act as if you will not see me again,” Irissë replied.

 

Tyelko wove his fingers through her hair. “A strange thing indeed happened, it came to me, the possibility that I might not see you again.” Tyelko held her cheek with his other hand. “It grows and as hard as I try, I cannot shake it.”

 

“Tyelko?” Irissë breathed. Just what was going on in the Fëanorian camp. “What has your father said that has you so spooked?”

 

“He has said nothing.” Tyelkormo lied. “Irissë, please listen to me.”

 

Irissë furrowed her brow, Tyelko was not revealing everything to her. She needed to find out more. “Come,” she decided, a choice she would grow to regret. Pulling her hood up she led him through the dark into an empty tent. Once inside the tent, she removed her cloak. Tyelko too removed his. She was going to say words to send him back but what he did next was unexpected. He dropped to his knees in front of her and wrapped his arms around her. Between sobs, he kissed her hands, speaking feverishly of loss and the smell of horses, of their rides together, and how he regretted that he had not asked for her hand in better times. “If I had asked you to marry me before Moringotto, before everything fell apart, maybe it would have been enough to unite our families and all this,” Tyelko indicated with his hand to the commotion outside, “might have been different.”

 

Irissë closed her eyes in frustration and to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “Tyelko,” she groaned. How could he be such a fool?

 

Tyelkormo desperately grabbed at her hands, kissing them. “Irissë,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. Irissë would always be undone by that face, those eyes, so fair, so brash. In better times, she had wished for this moment.

 

“Not like this,” she whispered. Tyelko wrapped his arms around her and brought her down, embracing her fully. Irissë was enveloped in her old lover’s arms, found his familiar scent, felt his strong arms and legs around her. Looking up into his eyes, she cried, wanting to say more but found she was overwhelmed.

 

Tyelko smiled through tears, whispering, “Irissë.” With a hand at her chin, he led her into a kiss. It was tentative and pleading at first. Irissë was not unwilling and Tyelkormo became more urgent, his kisses searching her for what he needed. Like a moth to a flame, Irissë fell into him once more, not knowing it would indeed be the final time. Their kisses became feverish, frantic, and they experienced passion in a way they never had encountered: at the edge of death and the unknown. The moment, more than an aphrodisiac, was punctuated with the searching whispers of love and crying, giving and taking. 

 

Frantically they pulled off each other’s clothes, revealing soft skin beneath. This was a well-worn ritual between them. Irissë climbed atop her lover and took him and he welcomed her, filled her. Together they rode, their rhythm familiar, but there was something more. “You will always be my only love, Irissë,” Tyelko’s voice managed to share though it took him much effort.

 

Irissë looked into his eyes as she straddled him, her forehead touching his. Each watching the other, observing, kissing, and taking in everything they could of their lover. Little could they know they were creating life. It seemed the end of times and their passion was given over in a way that was not familiar to the Noldor. Had they slowed, had they not been under threat, without a Doom looming over them, they would have recognized the act of creating life, of filling the other so completely and with such finality could only result in one thing. There were many firsts for the Exiled Noldor. This would be one amongst many things that had once been impossible.

 

They filled one another, and bit back their cries of passion, afraid to be found out. Tyelkormo lost himself within Irissë, loving her so completely even if it was only momentary. He gave her all of him, came inside her carrying so much dread and desire, mixed with the unknown of tomorrow that he became blinded by light. Irissë could feel every pulse of Tyelko within her, her own desire claiming him, and together they shone so brightly their tent filled the night with light.

 

They stole a few moments together after their love making, knowing Tyelkormo had to return to his post or incur the wrath of his father. “Come with me,” Tyelko implored, “you and others will be welcome on the ship with the animals.” Tyelkormo deceived her once more. While Nolofinwë’s debates raged on with Fëanáro about who would get on what boat, Fëanáro secretly conspired to abandon them. Nolofinwë believed that Fëanáro had acquiesced to at least the vanguard of his host being given one ship that would allow them return for more, but Nolofinwë could not in his heart imagine that Fëanáro desired that.

 

Irissë traced his face with her finger. “I,” she faltered. “Your father will not allow it.” Silently, she thought, _my father will not allow it. He will want me on the ship with him._

 

Tyelko pulled her in to kiss her. “My father will grant me this. I believe it,” Tyelko whispered, not believing his own words, though he was desperate for them to be true. “Meet me when I light my lamp, you will recognize it. Come to the ship with the horses. You only have to pretend to offer me instructions for your noble Vilintál and I will bring you on the ship with me. You can wait with me there until we depart. You will be needed there and your father will allow it.” He would sneak her on board.

 

“Vilintál,” Irissë sighed, her beloved horse. It would be comforting to make the crossing with her beloved steed, surrounded by horses and Tyelko. Perhaps. “I will try to meet you,” she said.

 

She was going to say more but Tyelko did not want to hear it. “I will be waiting,” he whispered, gathering his clothes.

 

******

 

It had been days since Tyelkormo met with Irissë, though the Long Dark made the accounting challenging. He’d wanted to escape to see her again, but was thwarted by his father’s needs. But he found a moment to slip away, waiting by the boat. Much of the cargo that could be put on the boats for the first crossing was loaded. There were few around the boats. The icy mists would not retreat. Tyelko found his lamp and lit it, trying to look through the mist. It was thick even for keen elven eyes, but beyond he could manage to see a light flicker here and there. Surely Irissë would be looking for lamps lit by the boats, surely she would see it. He knew she would recognize it, the same lamp he used on many a hunting trip that they left to guide them back when they found themselves needing a beacon. He waited for long hours, but she did not come.

 

“What are you doing?” Fëanáro hissed. “Do you wish to stay behind?” Fëanáro accused his son, the threat and fear growing in his mind that his sons and his people would not follow through on the oath. “Of course not father,” Tyelko replied, “It is just that there are so many of us.” And one I wait for, he wished he could have said.

 

“Too many,” Fëanáro corrected. “To the ship, Tyelko,” Fëanáro commanded. A breeze from the northwest began to stir. “A good wind comes,” Fëanáro whispered. “Our people are on the ships. We must leave now, take advantage of the wind and use what we learned to cross the seas.”

 

Tyelko hesitated.

 

“Would you abandon your father?” Fëanáro recriminated his son, “and for what,” he spat out, guessing that Tyelko did not want to abandon Irissë. “Remember that Nolofinwë wishes to usurp me my son,” Fëanáro spoke darkly, grabbing Tyelko’s shoulder. “Do you wish to see that?”

 

Tyelko cast his eyes down. “No father.” He did not wish for Nolofinwë to cross with them. There was only one person he wanted making that crossing from that host and she had not come.

 

“To the ship then and no turning back,” Fëanáro commanded.

 

Tyelko took one quick glance but boarded the ship on his own accord, understanding that they would not return for them. Orders were whispered and the ships were soon groaning, moving into the open water, propelled by the wind that picked up from the Northwest. Tyelko stood at the stern, watching the lights of the camp disappear. She had not come.

 

******

 

Irissë walked on the shore. She found another figure on the rocky beach. Gracefully she walked across the rocks to an outcropping upon which large waves crashed. On it stood Findekáno. She came to stand next to her brother.

 

Findekáno reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why does my heart feel such a heaviness,” Findekáno confided in his sister, both contemplating the lovers they had lost, were losing.

 

Irissë shuddered. “I feel a shadow of a doubt growing,” Irissë admitted. Findekáno shared a meaningful look with his sister. Irissë knew she would not be leaving with Tyelkormo. She would walk with her family just as Tyelko would go with his. It would always be this.

 

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, sensing a change in her. “What has happened?” Irissë looked up at her brother, startled.

 

“What are you suggesting?” she offered, surprised by Findekáno’s words, the guilty memory of her last meeting with Tyelkormo a constant source of agony.

 

Findekáno’s bright blue eyes grew large, “Irissë, do you not hear it?”

 

Irissë gasped. She had not been listening, but she heard it now that Findekáno had brought her attention to it.

 

“Irissë?” Findekáno queried, turning fully to face her and turning his back on the water. The waves broke wildly behind him but he did not fear them.

 

She looked up at him, her eyes panicking. “I, I, how?” The new song was faint, but it was there, the first signs of a new life growing inside her.

 

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, pulling her into a hug, “Tell me all you can.”

 

Irissë shared that Tyelko had visited her, revealing all he had said to her. Findekáno listened, but he could not help but frown. Damn Tyelko for this, he thought to himself. She did not offer him details, but she offered enough context for Findekáno and Irissë to realize what had most likely occurred and why.

 

“Oh Finno, my heart grows darker,” Irissë voiced.

 

“You must hide this new song,” Findekáno urged, unsure what such a happening might do to the fragile peace.

 

“But how?” Irissë asked, scared.

 

“Let me find Accarrë,” Findekáno offered, knowing that she would surely know of a way to hide the song.

 

Irissë nodded, sad to put this on her friend. Findekáno left in search of Accarrë and Irissë made sure to keep herself away from the camp, worrying that perhaps others had heard the new song she carried with her.  She settled on Findekáno’s cloak, a rock behind her, waiting for Findekáno to make it back.

 

When he finally did he had Accarrë with him. Her eyes betrayed that she knew what afflicted Irissë, but she did not recriminate her, instead offering her what little she knew how to make the song hide within Irissë’s song so that others would not hear it. “You might be able to manage a month or two. I have never heard of anyone hiding it for more than that.”

 

Findekáno said what the others did not: “What about extinguishing the song? Have you considered this?”

 

Irissë sighed, of course Findekáno would think this. It was not out of the question under normal circumstances, but these were not them.

 

Accarrë answered for her, “Extinguishing a song can be done, but such a thing takes much from a person. Irissë would be in no condition to travel for a few weeks to a month. She would not be able to board the ships.”

 

“Then it is settled,” Findekáno answered his own question, knowing as did his sister and Accarrë that it was impossible for Irissë to stay behind.

 

Findekáno built a fire and they settled in listen to the roar of the waves crashing on the shore. Irissë and Accarrë sat on a patch of sandy shore, the rocky outcrop behind them, keeping the cold wind at bay, speaking quietly. Findekáno stood on the rocks, his eyes turned to the sea. A breeze started to pick up. Irissë looked up expectantly towards the boats, believing that Tyelkormo stood and waited for her there, but swore she saw no boats. Surely it was just the mists.

 

Findekáno cried out, “The boats!”

 

Irissë and Accarrë stood up and ran up the rock to where Findekáno stood. The breeze was now a strong wind, whipping the boats out quickly to the open sea. The mist gone, it was plain for all to see, the Fëanorian encampment was emptied and the fleet of boats was all departed.

 

“The boats!” Findekáno cried out, grabbing hold of Irissë, joining the chorus of shouts on the shore as Nolofinwë’s people looked on.

 

Later when they saw the flames from the far-off shore, they knew that it was the boats set aflame. Fëanáro and his people abandoned them. Findekáno and Irissë held on to one another and wept. Not only for the betrayal by the ones they loved but by the inescapable journey they knew they had before them. There was no turning back. Findekáno and many others were Kinslayers, could not go back.

 

Irissë was not a kinslayer, but she carried the child of one who betrayed them. Bitter were her tears. Tyelkormo knew that Fëanáro had no desire for Nolofinwë’s people to go with them on the ships. It was why he came begging her to sail with him. _Coward,_ she indicted him. His selfishness regarding her had always been a spot of contention in their relationship. She had been but a thing for him to possess, had not considered what he asked of her, to abandon her family. Had he ever known her? She would be crossing the ice carrying his child, knowing she would face rebuke from her people, her father, and most likely Turukáno. Turukáno’s hate of Fëanaro and the brothers was mighty and he had no sympathy for Findekáno and Irissë. To know that Irissë had taken Tyelkormo to her bed would surely earn her enmity from Turukáno and many others. She felt it for herself.

 

Indeed, Nolofinwë and his people were determined to take vengeance on Morgoth and to meet Fëanáro and challenge him for his betrayal. A fire was lit within her brothers, Arakáno being the most outspoken. The quietness that had descended on Findekáno after the Kinslaying grew more noticeable, and he grew more distant, but no less determined to cross the Ice. All three took their charge seriously, to help their father lead their people across the ice.

 

“Until the bitter end, and bitter it will be [1],” Findekáno spoke for all to hear as they crossed the threshold into the Grinding Ice.

 

)()()()(

 

Morgoth’s brutality weighted heavily on all of them. The details of the massacre had spread like wild fire though Nolofinwë did not wish it.

 

Findaráto stood in the Great Hall: the dais was fully elaborated, an ornate wood throne sat upon it. The jewels of Nolofinwë’s house sparkled upon it as the fruits of the branches that reached out from the crest rail. He did not understand his uncle’s desires to keep the details of the latest assault from spreading. Had they not faced enough darkness and ugly death to face such news?

 

A soft light filtered through the large windows, illuminating Findaráto. He glowed and his figure was regal. Nolofinwë looked upon him and saw Findaráto’s future. _You too want to be a lord, a king in your own realm_ , he thought bitterly to himself, though he did not like such thoughts coming to him. It made him feel too much like Fëanáro, not trusting those around him. Perhaps Findaráto was right. The people needed to know all that occurred. Why did he cower away now?

 

Nolofinwë sat on the throne, his head resting in his hand, in contemplation. “Your advice is sound,” Nolofinwë relented, sitting up straight, letting his eyes settle on his nephew. “We shall allow transparency to rule us.”

 

Findaráto inclined his head. The lords and ladies that stood beyond Findaráto murmured in approval. This bode well for Nolofinwë, demonstrated he was willing to listen. After all there were many wise amongst the Host that were deserving of having their voices be considered. They could not imagine such a leadership under Fëanáro, reminding them of why they followed Nolofinwë in the first place.

 

)()()()(

 

Accarrë found Fingon in the thicket. Many more trinkets and objects filled it as more and more people began to frequent the memorial to their dead. In his hands, he held lock of his own hair. Reverently he tied it to a branch, snugly fitting between the portrait of Elenwë and Arakáno’s seal.

 

Hearing her behind him, he whispered, “For Rilmien,”

 

Accarrë replied, “Yes,” acknowledging Irissë’s loss, her memory of the child a bright detail she would never forget.

 

Fingon pressed his hand to his heart. Accarrë pondered whether he prayed, did not know if he could any more. Fingon turned and left the thicket without acknowledging her, but she followed him—as she always would even unto her death--through the narrow path amongst the pines.

 

She trailed him for much of the way until he turned to face her. “What do you want?” he challenged, though he did feel remorse for his bitter attitude towards her. His friend did not deserve it, but she was there and he had nowhere else to place his anger and bitterness. 

 

Accarrë reached for Fingon. He turned away from her touch it seemed on instinct. On the one hand, he wanted to be held, consoled, and on the other, he wanted nothing to do with anyone, and be left alone to contemplate his own outrage, to be allowed to cultivate it for violent ends. 

 

But she would not be dissuaded. “Fin,” she whispered, using the short of his name that did not change regardless of linguistic origins.  “You cannot do this,” she urged, wanting to tell him, you must live, you must begin to find some joy in the world that we have inherited here.”

 

She reached for him again, but he pushed her hand away. “Leave me be,” he directed, walking away from her, but he was met with her persistence.

 

“I will not,” she muttered, her own anger growing at Fingon. “Stop being insolent.”

 

Fingon spun around to face her causing her to flinch. This made Fingon pause. Who had he become that one of the few people left with patience for him, cowered because of him? How much patience would they have for him, not knowing what Fingon they would meet. It was too easy for sorrow to move him to fury and bitterness. That anguish would never leave him. If he were cultivating it for violent ends, it seemed that he was condemned to lash out at those he loved.

 

“I do not know how…” Fingon floundered. Looking at Accarrë, he shrugged his shoulders. “I am at a loss.” He wanted to say that he needed help, needed guidance, that he was entirely adrift and unsure how to do what she asked of him. _What of you healing, what space was are you given to work through your torment?_ Fingon thought to himself, wishing he could offer her the same patience and care she did for him.

 

Fingon laughed bitterly. “But I am a Prince!” he cried out, knowing the women and the commoners of their host were afforded little room to lick their wounds as he was.

 

Accarrë laughed in turn. “We are not,” she replied, growing angry with Fingon. “Indeed, you are a bastard, thinking only of your own pain.” She said it, naming the feelings she harbored for her friend.

 

Fingon wanted to grow wrathful. This time he only allowed himself to grunt at Accarrë, but Accarrë understood that Fingon needed to meet his anger and wrath head on, be allowed to succumb to darker desires and know he could control them. He needed to fully meet Fingon and accept who he was.

 

And she needed to be more than Fingon’s auxiliary whether in battle or emotions. She dared name their treason: “I too am a kinslayer, but the people need what I offer to them, and I need what they offer me.” She placed her hand on her sword’s pommel, observed as Fingon’s bright blue eyes followed her motion. “We need you Fingon.” Accarrë ripped off her sword belt throwing it to the ground. Taking deep breaths, she began to hum, her voice buzzing, creating a magnetic energy. It was dangerous to call forth Eldar magic alone as they were but she needed Fingon to feel her pull, her energy.  She spoke, “What you feel is the pull of Endórë reminding you of your inheritance, what you feel is the need to express your fury, and what you need is a good thrash. In our early days, it was not uncommon for our people to battle one another.”

 

It was Fingon’s turn to laugh, though he recognized that her conjuring had quickly turned his mood. “And you shall be the one to mete out this punishment?”

 

“Aye,” she snarled.

 

Fingon dropped his own sword belt. “Very well.”

 

They rounded each other, like wild animals circling each other, waiting for the moment to go in for the kill. Accarrë expected Fingon to attack. He needed to do it. While they had momentarily grappled after the battle with the orcs, it was not enough.

 

Fingon answered. He came at her violently, dropping her to the ground. She retaliated, elbowing him in the jaw and kicking him in the stomach. Momentarily stunned, she flipped up and went to attack, but Fingon caught her by the hair, throwing her to the ground. Her lip split and her teeth felt like they would shatter, but elven bodies, even these Ice worn bodies, were hardy. With a leg, she kicked his feet out from under him. He landed with a thud, hitting his head. With a quick motion, Accarrë landed a solid kick to his brow.

 

Yet Fingon did not lose his elven gracefulness. Swiftly he flipped himself up and threw himself at Accarrë. Fingon was much larger than Accarrë, weighed significantly more though she was also tall and strong. This would be the end of it. She would surely cry out parley. Fingon pinned her to the ground, held her arms down with his hands, wrapped his legs around hers to keep her down. He ground down on her, not allowing her to push up. Accarrë’s eyes were narrowed and she was hissing at him like a wild thing. This exhilarated him. The sight of blood on her lips was rousing. They were both breathing heavy from their exertion, but there was a change in their struggle. Where there was battle fervor was now giving way to arousal. Elves, the Second Born would soon say, were strange, fey cousins.

 

Blood trickled down his own face from the cut on his brow. He tasted his blood, licking it provocatively. Accarrë tasted the blood from her own lips, pushing up on Fingon, wanting to feel him there. Fingon responded, pressing his hard cock into her. She moaned, meeting and moving against it. Hungrily he pressed his lips against hers and they kissed roughly, but Fingon would not release her, causing her to buckle under him. He savored the feeling of her under him, voicing his pleasure, but she found the upper hand flipping him over.

 

Fingon laughed. He was happy to have her dominate him. He grabbed her around the waste and brought her hard against him, willing her to ride him and feel him. Falling into their ecstasy, Accarrë closed her eyes and rode Fingon, but she wanted more. Fingon brought his hand up under her shirt to fondle her breast, his index finger finding and teasing her nipple. Accarrë growled, impatient. Getting to her knees she pulled down Fingon’s trousers, not caring to remove his boots. She exposed him, letting his cock spring free. It was large and hard, waiting for her. Together they frantically pulled off her boots and her trousers until was ready. Indelicately Fingon picked her up and drove into her. Accarrë cried out and pushed back against him. She rode him slowly at first, despite his growing protestations until she could hold out no longer. She rode him fast and hard.

 

The two focused on the sensation of their bodies, giving into whatever dictates their lust directed. Lucky for them, nobody ventured onto that path, otherwise they would have happened upon a most indecorous scene. They fucked hard and fast, then slowed and laughed, wiping the blood that trickled from each other’s faces. Fingon teased Accarrë pumping hard here and there as they worked to catch their breath. Giving in again to their hunger, they worked themselves into a frenzied love making, their voices carrying into the surrounding forest. They did not care who heard, did not care how they sounded. They gave themselves solely and wholly into carnal desire. It is what they needed, to come out on the other side of violence feeling alive.

 

Accarrë was growing wilder, nearer to ecstasy promised by sex, but Fingon could not hold out long enough to meet her pleasure. He expertly moved his hands to lay around his cock so she could grind into his knuckles, helping her tumble more rapidly into the brightness of her climax. Accarrë’s movement was frenzied, her stroke deepened. Fingon cried out, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He came with a violent urgency, but Accarrë held on longer, riding out beyond Fingon’s climax, until she too collapsed in savage release.  The bright light that enveloped them, slowly dissipated.

 

Accarrë tumbled off Fingon. They lay next to one another, their eyes closed, hands on their chests, catching their breath, allowing their bodies to come down from that very peculiar elven energy of sex, experienced not by the other creatures of Eru’s creation. Fingon laughed, the pain and aching of their coupling was hard to distinguish from the aches and pains from their fight. “Battle lust,” he moaned, his voice unwilling to cooperate so great had he given himself to their battle.

 

Accarrë grunted. She could not yet find her voice to speak. Instead she allowed her hand to fall on Fingon’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. The two laid on the path until dusk found them.

 

“Witch,” Fingon whispered, stirring from the reverie that had taken him. He felt unencumbered, at a distance from his anguish and sorrow. It was not gone, but he could observe it. He had come out on the other side, for once.

 

Accarrë giggled, causing Fingon to glance at her, surprise written on his face. He’d never witnessed Accarrë behave so vulnerably. Noticing Fingon’s surprise, Accarrë, mouthed a “what?” though she momentarily regretted allowing Fingon to see her vulnerability.

 

For once, Fingon had the distance from his own anguish to discern the slight change in her features. Leaning onto his side, Fingon took her hand into his. “I am a fool, forgive me,” he asked, understanding that what he desired the most was…forgiveness, had been asking for it over and over from those he loved.

 

Accarrë detected this change in Fingon and said a quick prayer of thanks to the goddesses that had been left behind long ago for her momentary lapse. “Not a weakness,” she whispered as much for her and for Fingon. With her hand, she pulled Fingon’s face towards her. “Fingon, I have never held you at fault for any of your missteps, for they belong to all of us.”

 

Fingon touched his nose to hers, “Please forgive me.” He needed this more than the understanding she was offering.

 

Accarrë sighed. She began, “I forgive you, Fingon,” but what came was unexpected: tears. She also needed to grieve.

 

Fingon too was overwhelmed. Forgiveness. _I forgive you, Fingon,_ the words reverberated within him and with a gentle kiss he thanked Accarrë. For the first time, beyond his dreams, he saw his sorrow and his loss, could recognize it in others, and believed he could walk with it. Accarrë’s magic was potent, had been once forbidden. Fingon truly understood that their people would need to reflect this new order: to be remade, his words began to take meaning and shape.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon and Accarrë walked into the encampment looking a mess. They were bruised and bloodied, their hair tangled, small branches and leaves caught up in their hair. Their clothes were dirty and wrinkled, blood dried on it. Many an elf stood and gaped. Their Prince and his witch always surprised them so. But most striking was the grin on Fingon’s face and the twinkle of mischievousness in his eyes. Being in the eye of his people, they watched him keenly, and many reckoned that on that day, Findekáno found a way for Fingon. It marked the capacity for elven whimsy to take hold and be celebrated in light of darkness and terror. For Fingon he began to understand what it truly meant to be an elf, feeling in his bones the changes that Endórë wrought, the desires she awakened within the First Born to harken to the elven qualities that had made them fey and dangerous, joyful and sorrowful- an enigma for all around them. 

 

Irissë and Artanis observed the pair make their way to the communal showers. Artanis snorted, “A good fuck is all he needed.”

 

Irissë laughed, knowing Artanis was being flippant. “The power of women must be accounted for if we are to thrive,” she said, determined to find her place in this world.

 

Artanis pulled Irissë closer to her. “We will not forget her. I will not allow it,” Artanis voiced, naming the baby that had been lost, that too many would not speak of, but not the women that surrounded Irissë, they kept her memory as a beacon.

 

Irissë held her head up high, watching as Accarrë led Fingon into the baths, whispering words to him that made him smile. In the stories that would be passed down by the women folk, the names of Accarrë, Rilmiel, Celebrían and others would be celebrated, their deeds told. These histories would record their fears, their desires, and whisper the intimacies of Noldorin history lost to the tales written by men in the annals of formal history.

 

)()()()(

 

_“…they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe. There Elenwë the wife of Turgon was lost, and many others perished also; and it was with a lessened host that Fingolfin set foot at last upon the Outer Lands. Small love for F_ _ë_ _anor or his sons had those that marched at last behind him, and blew their trumpets in Middle-earth at the first rising of the Moon.”_

_-_ The Silmarillion

 

[1] From Silmarillion, Chapter 9, Of the flight of the Noldor


	6. Renewal

**Chapter 6: Renewal**

 

Soon the colors of fall would blanket the land and the land would begin to ready itself for slumber, but on this summer day, the air was hot and humid, latent with life and fertility. On a gentle slope, under the boughs of a large oak, two bodies lay together, entangled.

 

“Acharedel,” Irissë savored the sounds of the letters come together on her tongue.  She scrunched her nose, whether in displeasure Accarrë could not tell.

 

“Do you not like it?” Accarrë inquired, her eyes studying the beautiful profile beside her.

 

“I do,” Irissë replied, turning to face Accarrë. The breeze picked up to blow a strand of hair across her face which Irissë gently tucked behind Accarrë’s ear. She allowed her finger to trace the elegant length of her lover’s ear.

 

Accarrë shuddered, laughing softly. “Then what is it that causes you to wrinkle your nose just so!” Accarrë pulled Irissë into her lap.  Irissë’s black hair was loosely bound in a knot at her nape. The wild flowers Accarrë had lovingly placed Irissë’s hair were as fresh as when she first plucked them, a token of her faerie magic.  Irissë was the most beautiful creature Accarrë had ever seen and would ever know. Of this Accarrë was certain and it made it so easy to conjure the old green magic that favored such frivolities.

 

Irissë sighed contentedly, secure in the familiar warmth of Accarrë. Looking up at the older elf, Irissë shared, “I understand our peoples’ desires to take on new names but hearing yours… it makes you feel farther away from me.”

 

Accarrë sighed. The slight translation from Quenya to Sindarin was indeed ominous. While her mother name of vengeance was little approved in Aman, it was nevertheless prophetic, but in Sindarin, it was entirely unsettling: a hostile return.

 

Irissë continued, “Are we not colonizers, believing our Return to these lands our destiny? What of the Grey, the Green, those we consider Fae and dark?”

 

Accarrë did not like Irissë’s words. “How can we be colonizers if these are the lands where our ancestors were born? My mother and father are from these lands, following only in _your_ grandfather’s footsteps because of a loyalty to their friend. We are not the ones that look down our noses at those that did not Journey,” Accarrë replied fiercely, her eyes scanning the lake in the distance, not wanting to see the anger in her lover’s face. “I leave those attitudes to the Lords and _Ladies_ of the nobility.” Accarrë exaggerated the phrase knowing she was offending her friend.

 

Irissë sat up. She was about to fall into a well-worn debate between them, but she knew that the words she spoke were meant to distance Accarrë. It tore at her, that fateful night—in what were many of many that she would chronicle—that Turgon spoke to her of his towers by the sea and asked if she would come with him. Irissë had said yes. Of course, she would follow Turgon, not for Turgon but for his daughter, like a daughter to Irissë. This impending departure, though not for many years, nevertheless grew a distance between her and Accarrë. It was foolish really. How could the small distance from Turgon’s city to the camp by the lake and to the place at the mouth of the River Sirion her father had chosen to build a fortress seem like such an immense divide? And yet Irissë, for better or worse, was tied to Turgon’s fate, and Accarrë to Fingon’s. This was a bitter pill for Irissë to swallow for in her search for freedom Irissë was still bound to the will of men. She took in a deep breath and grabbed Accarrë’s hand. She could find no words to speak.

 

Accarrë found one instead: “Íreth,” she whispered using the Sindarin of Irissë’s name. “Do not think I am blind to your emotions, that I know not what thoughts tumble about in here,” Accarrë indicated, placing her hand upon Irissë’s chest. “In the time I have loved you, you have never been completely mine,” Accarrë admitted, the specter of Tyelko emerging from the past shared between them. And now Turgon, but she could not ask Irissë to stay for well Accarrë knew that she went with Turgon not for him but for Itarillë. Accarrë could not take this from Irissë, knowing it helped soften the pain of the loss of Rilmiel.

 

Irissë leaned into the familiar body of Accarrë, wrapping her arms around her lean form. Accarrë whispered as she closed in for a kiss, “Know this my white lady, I will always love you.”

 

“I know,” Irissë whispered, “and I you,” but the unspoken words, _but not enough,_ filled her thoughts. Her Accarrë, like Fingon, fated to love someone who could not be there the way they wanted. Tyelko had not been there for her. Doomed lovers.

 

Accarrë pulled away momentarily from her lover. A feral grin spread on her lovely face. “Not Artanis! She will forge her own fate!”  Irissë mouthed an incredulous “what” but was quickly quieted by her lover. Accarrë closed her mouth over Irissë’s and gently laid her upon the verdant grass. No, it was not enough, but this moment, their present, was enough for her to claim Irissë, to show her how much she loved her. With her free hand she slipped her hand between Irissë’s trousers and her skin, making her way to the path between her legs. Irissë had an easier task, lifting up the skirt that Accarrë was wearing and finding her ready, stroking her between the legs, finding the contours of the buds of the flower that bloomed.

 

Summer would soon give way to fall, and fall to winter, but the lovers’ heat kept the chill of fall at bay. And time passed this way in the camp by the lake.

 

)()()()(

 

A chill had crept into the air and though elves did not chill easy the warmth of a fire was rumbling in the hearth, heating a kettle of water hanging from it. Irissë kept quiet while Accarrë arranged her bow and quiver in the room. Irissë knew the drill: return from patrol and hand over your dirtied and dulled weapons and armor to the smiths and their apprentices; hastily disrobe as you make your way to the showers, gathering the gloves, the leather braces; enter the large stone bath building and unceremoniously discard your items on the floor; peel away leather armor and road worn clothing, dropping it atop your growing pile; and finally slip in to the heated waters and let it work its way to your bones. A fine system had emerged amongst vocations now held in high esteem. The young would gather up the items and distribute them as needed to be; whether to the leatherworkers, the seamstresses, and the washers, the soldier’s gear would be tended, mended, or replaced.

 

Accarrë had just returned from a long scouting trip with Findaráto and Artanis that included a visit with the Fëanorians and a trip to the borders of Doriath to meet with the kin of the Arafinwions. Accarrë’s face did not break out into a smile. The journey was most assuredly a demanding one, not only because of the distances travelled but because of the people involved.  Accarrë felt her lover’s eyes trailing her as she moved through the room. Her room was now connected to a larger stone structure that had been built by the third year of Fingolfin’s hosts time in Middle Earth. A building boon was upon them. The Noldor had perfected their system, from quarry to stone mason, to the building of walls. Earthen homes were erected, some with timber, some with stone floors, but all with an eye that they would not be permanent. To the eyes of men that were recently awoken Fingolfin’s settlement would be a beauty to behold, but for the elves, it was too exposed. Fingolfin’s eyes were set to the East at the mouth of the River Sirion where soon the ground would be set for Fingolfin’s fortress, though that building would not come to be for some time.

 

Turgon, on the other hand, begun building a settlement to the West on the slopes of Mount Taras by the sea. The proposed settlement had attracted a lot of attention and debate within the ranks of the Noldor, laying bare the divisions that still festered. It was bitterest of all between Turgon and Fingolfin, though Fingolfin did his best to quell the resentment he felt for his son for taking Idril and Ireth away from him, but as a father, he also understood his son’s motivations. Fingon, though, felt Turgon was acting selfishly, not considering what was best for all the Noldor, and not just his inner circle. Militarily, it was spreading their forces thin, dividing up the territories to be defended, but it was clear that there were many who would follow Turgon. Fingolfin believed that at least a third of their people would follow Turgon. It was the one of the conversations that were had officially and intimately. For Fingolfin, he saw how it tore his people apart. The Noldor were fractured not only within his host but also from the Fëanorians. They would never defeat Morgoth so broken.

 

Irissë moved to the hearth to fill a mug with the water from the pot. “Here, drink this,” Irissë offered, placing the mug on a table near the hearth. Accarrë nodded, walking over to the table. Steam rose from the mug, filling her nose with the sweet scent of chamomile. She plopped herself on the chair. She was bone tired. It had been a long trip but more than anything it had been a trip that required a great amount of mental energy.

 

Irissë was waiting for her report, knowing that Accarrë had been obliged to spend part of the trip with Tyelko, exchanging scouting information. Accarrë first relayed to Irissë that upon arriving to the borders of Doriath, she had not been allowed entry, while Findaráto and Artanis had been welcome. The guards cared little for how and where Accarrë would stay but the group had anticipated such a greeting and so Accarrë found hospice with some of the Green elves that lived in the Forest of Brethil.

 

Irissë was incensed by Thingol’s rebuke. “He’s an arrogant ass!” she seethed.

 

“Yes, he is,” Accarrë acknowledged. “I like it not that the Arafinwions are welcome guests of his. Little love does he have for us, if he were to know the full tale-“

 

“It would be a disaster!” Irissë interjected. “More than a disaster, it would have profound implications for us all!”

 

Accarrë rubbed her temples. “But I am the worst for my time spent in that camp,” she admitted.   

 

Irissë moved behind her. “I can only imagine,” she soothed, massaging Accarrë’s shoulders. “Did you gain anything from your time with the Fëanorians?”

 

Accarrë grunted, “My time with Tyelko was the only useful moment I stole away from that shit hole.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Tyelko and I exchanged useful tactical information. We triangulated information on Morgoth’s ilk, and between the two of us gathered enough information to build a useful scouting map to share between our camps.” 

 

“And the others?” Irissë probed.

 

“Pointless,” Accarrë replied. “Makalaurë and Findaráto spent their time arguing about chain of command and Artanis was artfully answering pointed questions and responding to not so veiled threats from Curufinwë and Carnistir.

 

“What of the twins?”

 

“Telvo and Pityo were out scouting for much of the time we were there and when they returned they did not go out of their way to greet us.” Turning to face Irissë, Accarrë divulged, “Something about Maitimo stirs them, something of his death pains them.”

 

Knowing that Accarrë was a keen observer, Irissë pressed her for more information.

 

“There is something they are not telling us about Maitimo,” Accarrë revealed.

 

“But we have it on good authority that he died at the hands of Morgoth like Fëanáro,” Irissë replied.

 

“Those men were not there. They only know what they were told. And trust me when I say, even then, Ondion and his brother were not fully trusted by the Fëanorians. I believe much was kept from them.”

 

“That is very possible,” Irissë considered. After all, Ondion was her sister-cousin’s husband, even though he was a man of Fëanáro.

 

Accarrë turned around to face Irissë. “Say none of this to Finno. I fear it would stir up more than is needed within him.”

 

“I will not,” she vowed, knowing that Fingon least needed to have doubt planted in him over Maitimo’s death. Regardless of Maitimo’s betrayal, their love had been deep and fiery. Where there had been such fire there was sure left to be embers.

 

“Enough of my questions. To the bed!” Irissë commanded, satisfied Accarrë had drank enough of her tea. Accarrë rewarded her with a lopsided grin, too tired to manifest more. Irissë scooped Accarrë up from the chair and carried her to their bed where she plopped her on the mattress. “Sleep,” she ordered, sliding onto the bed next to Accarrë. Accarrë snuggled back into Irissë’s embrace, warm, comforting and familiar. Sleep found her quick.

 

Irissë laid next to her for hours, combing her hands through her hair, and feeling the familiar rise and fall of her breath. ““Acharedel,” Irissë whispered, this time like a prayer.

 

)()()()(

 

The chill of the harvest season was a strange companion. On the one hand it announced the cold that would soon arrive. Fingon sat next to his sister-cousin, Enelyë, the eldest daughter of Lalwen. She had her head on Fingon’s shoulders, her arm looped through his. It had been too long since they had sat this way.

 

“I have missed you,” Enelyë whispered to her brother-cousin. Fingon turned to look at Enelyë. It had taken him much effort to reach out to her. He hadn’t really spoken with her since he took her son’s arm on the ice due to a terrible accident that resulted in severe frostbite, a condition they had not known could even occur before Helcaraxë. Fingon kissed his sister-cousin on the brow, but he was drunk enough to bump his head into hers, making them both laugh.

 

“Aye, I have missed you,” Enelyë repeated, her face beaming with a happiness that was rare also for her.

 

Fingolfin’s host was celebrating their first true harvest. A large bonfire lit the night. Much wine and ale were being consumed as well as a draught of potent mushrooms that aided the elves in their journeys into the land of fae.

 

Witches night. A thread in a song wailing like a banshee, reminding those willing to listen that witches’ souls were also bound to darker things. The song reached out to the moon, conjuring, teasing with the tip of a finger, come hither. Desire and death consumed the logs, the fire whipped into a frenzy, its finger light tendrils reaching out, clamoring for more, overwhelmed with the need to burn, consume, always on the edge of dying.

 

Feet clamored around the fire, jumping, delighting in the song of the fire, the song of the Laiquendi.

 

Fingon was drunk with the strange green spirits. He never bargained for the feeling in the pit of his stomach: a strange desire devoid of love. This was less than what he had known, but for now it would do. It was awoken in him now, desire. Perhaps he could no longer love, give his heart for he had given it and there was no having that back. He brought the drink to his mouth, took a sip, let his tongue play with the spirit. It burned going down.

 

Accarrë danced around the fire. Fingon smiled, watching how her hips swayed back and forth, the way her hair swung around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her whole body given over to the dance. Enelyë noticed her brother-cousin’s eyes, trailing the woman around the fire. “The fire consumes much more than we can see,” she offered.

 

Fingon turned to look at her. “That it does,” he answered, turning back to watch his witch.

 

Accarrë could feel his eyes on her, burning through her, pulling her closer to him, but she was caught. The fire too demanded of her, desired her body, calling her closer to its heart.

 

Accarrë had fucked Fingon back to some kind of forgiveness, an absolution they revisited on occasion. She smiled. Deep within her she felt her own heat kindled. The blood rushed down and she ached, desired release. With her hand she traced the feeling of desire along the paths of her skin, feeling it electric. She gave herself to the erotic dance, relished in the freedom of the Harvest fire. Her heart was given and she had felt it broken. Irissë would not stay in Nolofinwë’s camp, would not move with them to the new fortress. Instead, Irissë would follow Turgon to his city by the sea.

 

While the Noldor had not abandoned the fertility rites of harvest there were many in the Undying Lands that turned their noses to their old customs, naming them crude. But they were never abandoned, and in Endórë they found their sundered kin wishing to feast their harvests together as their kin had done.

 

After a while of the two cousins sitting in quiet contentment, Fingon rose. “Some advice?” Fingon offered his cousin, his eyebrow raised indicating he would not take a no.

 

Enelyë laughed, feeling light of spirit momentarily, yet also nostalgic for this banter reminded her of better days between her and her beloved Fingon. “Your advice has always been terrible,” she chided. They had been thick as thieves in Tirion, two of a kind, given to their impulses. Fingon grinned impishly, “Get fucked.”

 

“What?” Enelyë responded, half laughing, half offended.

 

Fingon kneeled before his cousin and took her face between his hands. “Look at that husband of yours, he looks lost.”

 

Enelyë looked over at her husband, Ondion, and back at Fingon. “And why should I be the one to offer him a remedy for his thoughts tonight?”

 

“You misunderstand me,” Fingon interrupted, “and you misunderstand him. He _misses_ you.”

 

Enelyë frowned. Of course he did. She had poured herself into the work her mother asked her to do and into the healing of her son, avoiding the work of trying to remake her life with her husband, a follower of Fëanáro who had boarded the ships expecting he would be able to bring his wife along. It had taken quite some time for her to believe that Ondion had not been allowed to disembark from the boat when he found out Fëanáro meant to sail without Fingolfin’s host. He’d not believed they would return, had been proved right and had been among the few from the Fëanorian encampment that left to live with Fingolfin’s host upon their arrival.

 

“Don’t let Fëanáro continue to be a wedge between you. He did not abandon you,” Fingon urged, more gently.

 

Enelyë sighed. “It’s not so easy, you know.”

 

Fingon nodded. Enelyë was as proud as him, and she was as bold as him. Fingon narrowed his eyes, a mischievous look returning to his eye.

 

“And just what are you scheming Findekáno,” Enelyë asked, knowing Fingon too well.

 

“Here,” Fingon offered, raising his cup to her lips. “This will help.”

 

Enelyë raised her eyebrows, knowing the concoction that was held in the cup being offered. “Take it,” Fingon urged.

 

Enelyë broke out in laughter, gathering Fingon up into a hug. “I thought I’d never have this part of you back,” she spoke, her voice giving way to emotion.

 

Fingon leaned into her embrace. “Here I am and here this is,” he urged. “It has a way of helping you find your way to the here and now.”

 

“Well there’s nothing for it,” Enelyë replied, taking the cup and gulping down the rich drink. “Oh that’s interesting,” she offered, finishing her drink.

 

Fingon pulled Enelyë up to her feet, “Now go,” he ordered,  pushing her in the direction of her husband. Turning to look at Fingon, she winked, knowing what Fingon was after that night.

 

)()()(

 

Fingon grabbed Accarrë pulling her close to him. Accarrë laughed, falling into his embrace. She was dizzy with spirit. “Faerie,” Fingon whispered into her ear from behind. With one hand he held her tight to him and with his other, he combed some of her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He allowed his fingers to trace the tips of her fingers eliciting a hum of appreciation from Accarrë.

 

“You bewitch me,” he whispered. Indeed, she did, conjured their connection. They were to be tied forever more, not in romantic love, but in fealty and the kinship of warriors, and unknown to them, something more, something tender.

 

Accarrë pressed back against Fingon, finding his erection. She ground against him catching his penis between her buttocks. Fingon growled wanting to be inside her, unhindered by the clothing between them, but she teased him, rubbing up and down against the length of his shaft. Fingon too teased, bringing his fingers against her crotch, finding her clit through her dress, pressing in, rubbing.

 

Accarrë laughed, pulling away from him. She turned to look at Fingon, loved how she could arouse him, his blue eyes dark from arousal, his full lips filled with blood. Batting his needy hands away she loosened the ties of her dress, letting it fall over her breasts and then hips, and finally letting it pool on the floor. Fingon hummed in approval his mouth parted, his breathing shallow. How he desired her. Accarrë stepped up to him not allowing him to touch her. Instead she pulled the tunic over his shoulders and undid the belt that held up his loose trousers. Soon Fingon too was disrobed. She pressed her mouth against his and kissed him hard, aggressively. Fingon spun her around and pressed her against the tree. The rough bark caught her hardened nipples, eliciting a pleasurable gasp. Fingon picked her up from behind and sheathed himself in her. It was not gentle. Nothing between them was. This wasn’t about love, but about need. It was the way these friends found to express some kind of bond beyond the broken hearts they both carefully had put aside. Accarrë steadied herself, arms on the tree, pushing herself back onto him. Fingon thrust hard and quick, and was met by Accarrë’s own need, demanding he take her into the center of that fire.

 

“Consume me,” she demanded of Fingon, willing him to kindle the fire, to bring their bodies into the heat of creation. They fucked hard, fucked without the consideration of love between them. Fingon could never love another and Accarrë would always love Irissë, but at least they had each other to lose themselves in, and absolve themselves of their sins in each other. Fingon called her witch, but he too was Faerie, allowed Endórë to consume him with its being. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, felt as his moans took shape deep within his chest and were released. She loved to make him moan this way, she loved to hear him beg and cry out so utterly lost in wanton desire. She pushed back harder against him, taking him in deeper, deeper, harder, loved the way it felt for her skin to make contact with his. So alive, in the moment, bodies given to a different type of ceremony. It was a way of warriors to find the desperate edge of living so close to being dead and dying. Accarrë cried out for him and he for her. “Fuck me,” she demanded. “Do not come,” she hissed knowing he was too close to his edge but she was not so she bore down on him and he responded bringing her up against that tree.  She held onto it crying out desperately with the desire that claimed her.

 

“Fingon,” she gritted out, pushing back against him and he against her. He was coming she could feel him, hear him as he cried out, moaned her name, their own personal prayers. She was so close, so close, she closed her eyes feeling the tree, its bark, its life within and in her mind,  she saw the river of hues of green and brightness of the trees life, into the depths of earth, and she was carried into the essence of the tree. Her desire road the currents of Endórë, of Ea. Upon her head a crown of flowers bloomed and Fingon pushed into her one more time until the river of energy washed up through her, into him, and beyond so that together they witnessed the elemental glory of the Eldar of old, born by the shore of Cuivienen.  Her voice soared and they sang together a strange elven song conjured by desire and the flowers bloomed and the petals fell from the flowers, melting into their skin.

 

They were faerie manifest.

 

“Acharedel,” Fingon managed to whisper, using the Sindarized form of the name Accarrë had adopted. Accarrë fell back into Fingon who managed to catch her. Gently he brought her into his lap, circling his arms around her. They leaned into one another.

 

“You fuck me so good,” she murmured contently.

 

Fingon laughed softly, catching his breath. “There is no other way to fuck you. You’d have my head if I did otherwise.” Unspoken was her heartbreak, but not unnoticed. Fingon held her tighter, breathing her in. The tale of Irissë and Accarrë was coming to an end. It broke his heart for Fingon knew the love that Accarrë had for Irissë and Irissë for Accarrë, but Irissë needed to leave for a time and Accarrë would not leave Fingon’s side. They had quarreled about it, but Accarrë’s own words convinced Fingon that whatever bond tied her to him was not to be trifled with. There were bonds beyond those of lovers. Whatever bond Fingon and Accarrë had, it was that of warriors whose lives were tied together. They had no idea then, that Harvest evening how much so.

 

A voice from behind them startled them, someone clearing their throat. Fingon looked up and saw a maiden, daughter of one of his father’s lords.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, annoyed by the interruption. At least she had the manners to turn her face discreetly away from them.

 

“My lord,” your father requests your presence.

 

Fingon raised an eyebrow. “And he ordered you to fetch me?” he asked, knowing his father had an idea of where he was and that he would surely not send this lass looking for him.

 

“Yes, the young maiden hesitated. “Well, he asked for you, and I,” her cheeks were now rosy with embarrassment.

 

“You volunteered to fetch our lord,” Accarrë interrupted, amused by the clearly besotted young maiden.

 

“I had no idea,” she stuttered. And yet she did not move to leave.

 

Fingon’s ire grew. Instead he rose to his feet and brought Accarrë up with him, propping her up next to him which elicited giggles of pleasure from his friend. They were both naked as the day they were born and likewise unashamed.

 

“Fetch me my tunic,” Fingon directed the maiden. He might as well put her to use if she refused to leave.

 

Fingon gave Accarrë her dress and then slipped on his trousers.

 

Her head looking down towards her feet, Líssien handed Fingon his top. “My lord, I promised your father I would retrieve you.”

 

“Indeed you did,” Fingon shared, amused by the young woman’s clumsy effort. She was but a young thing, come of age on the ice. This made Fingon pause. The young woman did not deserve his scorn. She too should desire, should want to find her heart’s love.

 

Accarrë watched as Fingon’s eyes softened with compassion. Her captain was a good leader. She knew Fingon would have words to exchange with the young women. “Thank you,” Accarrë leaned over to Fingon, placing her hand on his heart.

 

Fingon pressed his hand over hers, looking into Accarrë, sharing with her that she was not alone. Should not allow herself to care for her broken heart alone. Accarrë smiled. Fingon brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Witch” he whispered. Accarrë laughed and spun around to face Líssien, offering a quick curtsy and skipping off. Fingon watched her go, but he could also see that the young maiden followed every word shared between them closely.

 

“Líssien,” Fingon spoke, more gently than he first addressed her.

 

“Your father awaits,” Líssien repeated, keeping her eyes trained on the ground.

 

Fingon sighed, gently raising Líssien’s face up to face him. “Do not set your heart on me,” he gently chastised her.

 

Líssien looked up into the blue of Fingon’s eyes. He was transformed. More beautiful than she remembered him before the Ice. The healing had come to them quicker and he was haler, whole, his figure filled out. Stronger than before. “But do we not deserve to remake ourselves?” she questioned boldly.

 

Fingon dropped his hand. “You deserve it Líssien, but I cannot, do not have a heart to give.”

 

Líssien pressed her lips together, not wanting to speak too impolitely. “Or do you mean it has been given over to that…”

 

“Careful now,” Fingon interrupted, warning the young woman, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I do not have to answer to you, or to anyone for that matter, when it comes to what company I choose to keep.”

 

Líssien had the wherewithal to look contrite. But she was young and still impetuous. “Say I have a chance!” she pleaded.

 

Fingon stepped away from the young woman who moved to be closer to him. “Does it not matter what you just witnessed? Would you want a man who you saw with another?” Fingon opted for a different tactic.

 

“Things are different in times of exile and darkness,” Líssien repeated the now mantra that guided Nolofinwë’s people.

 

“They are,” Fingon sighed. “I do not want to hurt you Líssien, so please hear me. I have no heart to give. Look to find love in another. You will not find it in me.”

 

Líssien looked up at Fingon who towered over her slight frame. “Not many have hearts to give and yet we are expected to find matches, to have children, and make life anew. How? I do not know how my lord?

 

Fingon hesitated, his hand dropping back to his side. In this moment there were no words he could offer the young woman that would suffice. In truth she was right, and her question was not one he could answer. Instead, Fingon sighed and pointed in the direction of the festivities. “Go back,” he ordered. He did not feel guilty for the harsh way he spoke to her. He was used to it, had given himself over to the military life. He did not wait for her reply and instead turned away from her and walked towards the darkness of the trees.

 

Líssien did not follow. Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not let them fall. Fingon had not noticed that it was she who collected his gear and clothes when he returned from his many scouting trips, from battles; that is was she who laundered the battle worn clothes, mended them, and made them ready for him. It was she who took his leather braces to the leatherworkers for repair. It was she that vocationed with the leathersmiths and tooled the incantations of protection onto his leather armor.

 

In her later years she would fondly remember her childish infatuation with Fingon and even share in laughter with her lord over her antics. She never married a Noldor, finding a partner in a Sindarin elf and having children of her own. In her later years, in the service of Gil-Galad, she would confess that she only came to know of love as an Exile, never the love that grew in the Blessed Lands, and for this reason she was heartened to know that her first love had been Fingon. Fingon the Valiant. She would be one of the ones who did not die. And upon her return to Tirion she made sure to tell the lesser known tales of Fingon, of Fingolfin, of Gil-Galad, and to her family, she would tell them of her life and finally know of love in peace.

 

The Doom of the Noldor was thus twice fold for the lady folk for their fates were tied to the Houses of their fathers, their brothers, their husbands., or their sons. Few would emerge to forge their own path, at least in the histories written. In these Galadriel’s name would emerge and she would be counted amongst the Greats. But it was not with the Greats that the day to day, year to year, age to age, world of the Noldor was built. It was between those pages, in the spaces of intimacy, the unspoken work, the mending of clothes, of a scraped knee, that the will of the Noldor was mightiest and enduring.

 


	7. All is not what it seems

**Chapter 7: All is not what it seems**

Fingon peered down the steep mountain side of what the Grey elves referred to as Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft, towards the water falls.* The people Turgon had sent out were exploring the area, recently emerged from behind the water fall, looking for a way to build a hidden entrance to what would be Turgon’s settlement in the coastal region of Nevrast. The cleft was known by Fingolfin’s people in the old tongue as Glorfalc, the Golden Cleft, but the Noldor also called it Falqalaure for none of the exiles had known these lands before they had Journeyed.

 

Fingon stood on a narrow rocky outcropping and above him rose the steep face of the eredlemrin, the echoing mountains, named the Ered Lómin by the Sindar. Though that name did not satisfy the Noldor as it did little to differentiate from the Ered Wethren to the South, name given to the Mountains of Shadow by the Sindar that encircled their new home.

 

Fingon felt exposed. He could not see or hear the elves he had stationed at points above him. The sound of the waters of the incoming sea at the Firth of Drengist was loud. He had to rely on his eyes to see Turgon’s people in the distance and the others stationed along the northern side of the eredlemrin. The range ended here at the Firth of Drengist. On the other side began the Mountains of Shadow called eryd-lómin by the Noldor, that they only named amongst themselves, to prevent confusion with their Sindarin neighbors. A few elves had made their way across the Falqalaure. As the crow could fly, these men were closer, but by land they were hours apart. Fingon’s unease made him cold. Though the steep rise of the cliff stood behind him he could not help but be aware of his brother’s grave near the shores of Lammoth, where others had been buried after their first battle fought on these middle earth lands: lands of their origins that were now destined to be hold their bodies in death. For the Noldor feared death, the Doom of Mandos a whisper ever present upon them.

 

Fingon saw the signal from Turgon’s group as well his own scouts. The signal was relayed by sight to the scouts above him by those on the other side of the cleft. Now began the arduous task of carefully picking out paths along the narrow ledges and rock outcroppings of the steep mountain side, until he could find a safer path down to Turgon’s people at the foot of the waterfall. It took him a better part of an hour to find his path back, even for nimble elven feet, the slick rock walls were treacherous, but Fingon and his group managed. The remainder would make their way through the easier high ground and meet them on the other side of the waterfall.

 

Fingon felt a tremor in the Song, a different chord and it shook him to his core: Orcs

 

They descended upon them like ravenous carrion from the ground above. Around him Fingon could only see bodies falling, flailing, letting out a fierce battle cry. These orcs were committing suicide with their attack, but they did not die. Somehow the wretched creatures managed to survive and attack with a fury that Fingon had not witnessed before. Elven warning calls were shouted out. Fingon braced himself as an orc slammed hard into him, casting him with great force against a boulder. Fingon bounced off and landed face down upon the wet earth. A spear glanced off the back of his helmet. Fingon knew he had but a moment to act. From the edge of his sight he saw one Turgon’s men violently impaled with such force, it split the body in two.

 

Vomit came up in his throat. Fingon wielded his sword desperately, hacking at whatever was near him. Around him he heard the desperate cries of his people, shouting out enemy numbers, anything that could be useful. Battle cries from both friend and foe echoed through the steep valley, so fierce the sound of the raging waters could not dampen them. The stones deep within the mountains trembled and the earth was electric with the terrible energy of battle. Fingon kept watching for the elves that had been stationed at the tops of the cliffs of the Cleft, but they did not come.

 

Fingon allowed himself to reach out to them through the Song that was elven brutality- a Song both beautiful and terrifying to behold. The threads of their unique voices were gone. Dead, they were all dead. _Damn these shores_ , Fingon thought bitterly with every slice and pounding he took against his shield. This was close combat and he was taking a beating, surrounded by three orcs against the cliff, but elven battle fury was worth more than three enemies. Fingon too was stronger than the last time he battled orcs from such close distance. This too caught them by surprise. Managing to knock one Orc to the ground, Fingon charged the other two. Using his sword’s broad side, he pummeled the shield of an orc, shattering it, and with his own shield, Fingon took the impact of the sword, driving it in to his shield with such strength that the orc could not free his sword from it. It gave him enough time to slice at its feet as he rolled away, bringing one orc with him. The other orc let out a guttural shriek. Fingon had sliced through its tendons to the bone. Fingon rolled onto the other orc. They teetered dangerously on the cliff’s edge, the river raging below. It would be an easy out for Fingon to jump below but he could hear his company being slaughtered.

 

The orc grunted and screamed at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword found its belly. Spinning to his feet he ended the other creature’s life. Fingon ran as swiftly as possible towards Turgon’s people. Around him, some of his men and women fought fiercely but they all said one thing to him: _Get to them!_

Fingon spotted one of his men also racing ahead: Ondion! With great effort the two elves flew to the waterfalls. The sound of the melee ahead of them was sickening. Too many desperate elven cries were heard.

 

Too few of Turgon’s people stood. Fingon noticed some of that party missing. _“They must have been taken,”_ Fingon heard Ondion answer him. This was a fate worse than death for the Noldor had first learned from the Sindar and come to witness themselves that Morgoth would not kill all his captives.  Fingon and Ondion felled a number of orcs with arrows but had to draw their swords quickly for the orcs were fast upon them. Fingon had little energy to call forth a Song of Power. The fighting waged heavily in favor of the orcs. Fingon’s company were fighting for their very lives.

 

Fingon raised his sword to strike down an orc but an arrow brought it down and it fell dead at his feet. The sounds of elven voices rang around them. Where this company had come from Fingon did not know but he had little time to ask questions.

 

The skirmish was soon over. Fingon was barking out orders and about to go speak to one of the elves that had come to their aid unexpectedly, but Fingon felt woozy and fell back. Ondion caught him.

 

“I’m well...” Fingon attempted to reply but threw up.

 

“Help me,” Ondion barked to a young elf that had come with the other company.

 

Eyes wide with shock the elf hurried over to help Ondion sit Fingon down. Ondion took his water skin and poured it over Fingon. They were all bloodied. Sure enough, after washing away the grime of battle, Ondion found a large gash and swelling at the back of Fingon’s head. “A serious wound, though not life threatening,” Ondion observed, more for the young elf that was helping him.

 

To another elf he shouted for medicine. A small vile was thrown in his direction. Ondion caught it and gave it to the young elf named Nildo. “Give him some,” he ordered and “You,” he called out to another youngster he knew from Fingolfin’s camp, “help Nildo carefully lay Fingon down and check him over for any other wounds. I do not like the look of the bruising on his arm,” Ondion ordered. While he wanted to tend to Fingon there were others with more serious wound and he was the most battle savvy healer they had in the company. Fingon would have his head if he knew he stayed to tend him and not the most gravely injured. None of Fingon’s company would break their carefully constructed protocol and Ondion being the newest member would never dare it. Fingon had set aside an intense animosity towards him and asked Ondion to join the company.

 

Ondion spied Ireth coming down the rocky precipice near the waterfalls. “Ireth,” he whispered. It had been her archers that had saved them. Ondion shouted at Fingon, “It is Ireth we owe are lives to,” but Fingon did not respond.

 

Ondion turned to look for Fingon, expecting him to be sitting up and protesting the young elves attempts to get him to lay down, but was surprised to find Fingon laying down. Ondion walked over and stooped over Fingon, lifting his eyelids. Fingon was out cold.

 

Ireth was quickly at his side. “Tell me it is not serious,” she exclaimed, not liking the sight of an unresponsive Fingon.

 

Ondion shouted out to the younger elf that had earlier assisted Fingon. “Just how much of the curare did you give him.”

 

Ireth was a step ahead of Ondion. “The whole vile!” She answered in disbelief picking up the empty vile. “Nildo!” She hissed, walking over to the young elf who was tending another injured elf.

 

Ondion smiled bitterly. It was a grave mistake to knock Fingon out. Nildo would never make this mistake again. They were not out of danger. They needed all the elves that could tolerate it to be alert as possible to fight and flee if need be.

 

Ondion turned his attention back to the Fingon. His arm had been broken. Ondion quickly checked that it had been set correctly. Satisfied, Ondion began the task of carefully moving Fingon onto the makeshift litter. Fingon would be in a lot of pain, but for now, they would have to carry him out along with the other seriously injured.

 

Ondion did not covet Ireth’s position. The wounded were tended and a plan had been elaborated for returning to their camp, but she now had to decide what to do with the dead elves as the ranking officer. Ondion surmised they could not burn their bodies as this would alert any near-by orcs that the elves were victorious.

 

One of Fingon’s scouts that had accompanied Turgon’s surveyors spoke up: “We can leave them behind the water fall. There is a cave. It has not been touched by evil.”

 

Ireth gritted her teeth. “Move the bodies,” she ordered, deciding that perhaps at another time they could return to bury the bodies. Her brother Turgon would surely come back for them. More immediately, they needed to leave this place.

 

The wounded were sent ahead with a group of guards, scouts preceding them. A number stayed behind to guard while the elves moved the bodies. “What of the scouts we had positioned above?” Ondion inquired, hoping Ireth would say they were safe.

 

Ireth spared a glance at Ondion. “Dead.”

 

“All of them? Are you sure? There were 6,” Ondion replied, his stomach churning with anxiety, anger, misery- a concoction of emotions that were too familiar.

 

Ireth shook her head affirmatively. “Aye, one of your people was able to relay to us the number. All were found as we made our way here.

 

The group walked back in silence. Ondion and Ireth speaking sporadically to put the picture together of what had happened and how Ireth had found them. She would speak to Fingon when he was conscious, so she thought, but was surprised to find Celegorm and his people making their way to them, with many of Fingon’s company’s horses with him.

 

Celegorm spared them fresh horses knowing that Ireth’s company had rode hers hard to find Fingon and Fingon’s horses had also spent themselves running away from the orcs that had surprised them.

 

Ondion travelled with the injured on the horses, leaving Ireth and some of her company with Celegorm. They would part ways after passing through the Mountains of Mithrim. For once, all of Fingon’s people were glad to see the Fëanorians.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon awoke with a start, screaming and in pain. In his dreams he saw hands sticking out from the snow. The fingers were curled over, twisted and desiccated from the bitter cold. The wind blew the snow, moving, revealing what had laid there before. Graves quickly dug in the snow, revealed. He saw his nephew’s face, frail and blackened at the nose, the cheeks, and ears. The sockets of the eyes empty, the teeth protruding from the dried lips. Yet his nephew had not died on that ice, but many others had.

 

He saw the faces of the hundreds that perished, saw the faces of those he had killed. In his dream he saw his own silhouette searching the snow drifts, digging, desperately trying to dig new graves for the bodies, but the wind was too strong, and he was buried in snow. Memory would never abandon him, nor would it forgive him. Faces, worn images, testament to the lives that lived but perished all for a Doom that should never have been. Lovers, fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, friends, faces that had been someone in the time before the other side of exile, lost to the Ice in between Heaven and Earth, Aman and Endórë, the Blessed Lands and Middle Earth, between what was and what is.

 

He reached out to find the pebbles he kept by his bed, pebbles he had collected from the seashore near where Arakáno was buried. He needed to go back. They had buried him by moonlight and thus would the elves inter their dead, by the light of the moon under the stars. Fingon moved to stand up and was hit with a wall of pain. His arm had been broken and was bound across his chest. His head felt like it wanted to explode. Carefully he sat back on his bed. The pebbles stayed cold in his other hand. Most times, if he dreamed, they were a terror. How could they be otherwise?

 

 _Look to the stars! Let them be the guides to your pain, to your loss,_ Fingon heard Acharadel’s prayers echo. Here alone, in his dark room he allowed tears to fall. _We are all part of the currents of Eä, the very essence of Life. Stars are born and stars die. Elves are not eternal but tied to the fate of Arda, a fate not unknown_. They were bitter but at least he found he could mourn. _Look to the stars! In the intimacy of the space between you and them find the song,_ Fingon remember Acharadel’s words shared with him when he returned from the ill-fated scouting trip _._ _Not the song you were taught but the song that is primordial and future, present and absent, all at once_. Fingon tried to find the Song but failed time and time again.

 

The expected knock at his door came, then the familiar voice worriedly calling out: “Finno?”  Turgon.

 

Before he could bid his brother come in, Turgon opened the door. “I heard you cry out,” Turgon offered matter-of-factly. “Are you well?”

 

“I am,” Fingon replied, observing the dark circles under his brother’s eyes. “I must have been speaking in my sleep,” Fingon surmised.

 

Turgon sat down on a wooden chair near the hearth, noticing his brother had been crying. “More than speaking.”

 

Fingon grunted. That would explain why his throat felt raw.

 

“Ireth would offer you some tea, but she is not here,” Turgon said, knowing Fingon little wanted to speak of the dreams that tortured him.

 

“Where is she?” Fingon asked, realizing he had not seen her since his hasty return that evening.

 

“She was part of the party that came to your aid.”

 

Fingon raised his eyebrows. He had not seen her.

 

“Tell me what happened out there,” Turgon spoke, his voice indicating he would not accept no.

 

Fingon rubbed his eyes, his hand still in a fist. Opening his hand, he revealed the pebbles. Turgon’s eyes settled on the familiar grey pebbles, collected from the shores of Lammoth. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Turgon, “I was on patrol along the Cirith Ninniach, protecting the crew of elves you sent to assess the building of the underground tunnel that will connect to your settlement.”

 

Turgon stuck out his chin, “I know this. I want to know how it was you came to be attacked and whether our plans were revealed.”

 

Fingon clenched his jaw. “The orcs were surprisingly cunning and organized in their attack. They killed the scouts positioned at the entrance of the cleft. They rained down on us from the ridges, aided by some magic.” Fingon turned to look out at the stars visible from his window, the twitching of a muscle along his neck revealing his anguish. His thoughts had taken him back to the midst of battle. “Those orcs should have died, had their necks broken, from such high ground they leapt. But they did not die, and they landed upon us.”

 

Fingon’s thoughts brought him back to the room. “It’s how I got this,” he indicated with his chin. As if listening to his words, a piercing pain ran through his arm. Fingon did not wince, turning his pain into words, he hissed, “And worry not, your men are dead. They have no tale to tell.”

 

Turgon sat up straight. “Do not admonish me, Fingon.” Turgon felt the loss of the men just as keenly. Unlike Fingon, for him it was further evidence that he needed to build a city behind the protective height of the coastal mountains.

 

Fingon stood up, tossing the pebbles back into the bowl. “Do not admonish you?” he laughed. “No, brother, I am simply relaying to you that you need not worry. Those orcs also did not survive to tell a tale.” Rather than plan another fortification in a strategic area, Turgon was pulling his people back, relying on others to protect him.

 

Fingon walked curtly to the window. His breathing was shallow with anger. Willing himself to calm, he finally said to Turgon, “I lost many good soldiers.”

 

“I know,” Turgon replied coming to stand next to Fingon. “Do not believe me so absorbed that I do not also mourn their loss.”

 

Fingon glanced at Turgon. His hair was unbound and he was wearing the same wrinkled clothes as the day before.

 

“Ireth’s scouts found you. If not for her insistence that she follow after you, I am afraid you too would be dead,” Turgon shared wanly.

 

Fingon closed his eyes, his thoughts fixed on the dead.

 

“You did not see Ireth because she is the one who found the bodies of the guards you posted in the mountains.” Turgon tentatively reached out towards Fingon but pulled his hand back.  Fingon noticed.

 

“I see,” Fingon replied, unsure what else to say. His break was a serious one, not quite a compound fracture, and he had suffered a concussion. That Fingon was disoriented soon after the skirmish was not a surprise. He had been given a draught for pain that made him go limp. It had been too much. The scouts were young, not the most experienced healers and soldiers, and thus did not know that all soldiers are kept alert, giving just enough to take the edge off from the pain.

 

“Ireth scolded them good,” Turgon shared, smiling. This made Fingon smile too. He could imagine how severely she must have come down on them. He did not feel pity for them. Such mistakes and naïveté were costly.

 

Fingon was tired. He had spent much of his energy into healing himself. He did not want to fight with his brother.  Instead, Fingon noticed that his brother looked more than miserable, he looked translucent. “You have not been sleeping,” Fingon observed, knowing that Turgon’s sleep escaped him more than just this night.

 

Turgon cast a tired look at his brother. At least Fingon decided not to argue and pin the losses on him, though he deserved it.  “Rest alludes me,” Turgon answered, the brightness of his eyes dimmed.

 

Fingon understood that Turgon hoped to find some semblance of peace, some rest, in his city by the sea, a dream he had shared with him years ago as they watched the waters of the sea. And maybe Turgon was right to take Idril away from their camp, to give her a tower by the sea. It would not last. Both brothers knew this, but how could Fingon prevent his brother from offering his daughter this small joy. “It is folly,” Fingon whispered gently.

 

Turgon did not speak, replying only with the bitterest of smiles.

 

)()()()(

 

Forsaken, Makalaurë mused as Fingon stood before him, inside the Fëanorian throne room. It had been more than a year since he had laid eyes upon his cousin. In Valinor a year was but a day, but in Endórë, days were counted, and minutes and hours valued. Their sense of time had come undone. And once again Fingon was changed, no longer starved, but still hungry.

 

Maglor stood and walked towards a table laden with food. With a finger he indicated Fingon should join him. It was a gesture stolen from innocent times, intimate in nature, a way of saying something with his body that Fingon recognized as from a time before, but now was not that time or place. A mere gesture, now a daring show of authority. Maglor knew this. He was no fool. Fingon locked his eyes on his cousin and Maglor smiled. Of course, Maglor knew that he was playing with time, playing with the theater of what had once been and the dangerous present of the moment.

 

Fingon gifted Maglor a bitter smile. “Your father’s crown fits you well,” Fingon replied, not willing to engage Maglor in his game of cat and mouse. Findekáno, clever as he was, would have relished the challenge, but Fingon did not have time for such frivolity. Maglor knew this, Fingon was sure of it.

 

Sit and eat,” Maglor ordered, “I know you are hungry.”

 

Fingon preferred this directness. “Very well, I will join you.”  Fingon kept his eyes on Maglor as he crossed the large room and took a chair across from his cousin. Fingon served himself a healthy portion of the venison and wild rice stew. Pausing between mouthfuls, Fingon spoke, his voice not hinting at any emotion, “Ondion told me that your brother refused to burn the ships.”

 

Maglor sat up straight. The time had come for this conversation. Maglor had expected it earlier, but this new person was not one he knew well. Maglor let his fist fall on the table. “He did not. He asked our father to return for you. Demanded it, even,” Maglor answered coolly, his calculating gaze watching for anything as much as a twitch in Fingon.

 

“I know,” Fingon replied. Leaning towards Maglor who sat across from him, Fingon smiled, waiting for Maglor’s reply.

 

“Does it warm you to know my brother thought of you even in our darkest hours?” Maglor spoke, his voice silky and appealing.

 

Fingon threw his head back and laughed, slamming his fist on the table, causing the dishes upon it to shake. Maglor watched, appreciative that Fingon too was enjoying the absurd dance of power between the two. Fingon caught his breath. “Once upon a time,” Fingon answered. Sobering, he added, “I have little capacity to love.” Fingon grabbed Maglor’s hand. “This you condemned us to,” he hissed.

 

Maglor shook away Fingon’s hand. “We did not compel you to cross that ice,” Maglor accused.

 

Fingon stood abruptly, sending his chair to the ground. “You well know that we could not return.”

 

“Some of you did,” Maglor purred, enjoying Fingon’s anger.

 

Fingon, leaned on the table, bringing his face close to Maglor’s. “Not all of us could.”

 

Maglor whispered, “No, not you Kinslayer.”

 

Fingon grabbed Maglor’s throat, “Why? Why do you do this!” The few guards in the hall had their arrow aimed at Fingon, but Maglor threw his hand up, stilling them.

 

Ripping Fingon’s hand away from his throat, Maglor coughed, managing to whisper, “To remind you that you are not our betters.”

 

Fingon backed away from Maglor. He was not going to be pulled into this well-worn argument again. The two camps were at an impasse. Though they greatly needed one another to survive, the divide was too vast between them. Running his hand through his unbound hair, Fingon sighed, “You are worse for his death.”

 

Maglor moved to stand at a distance from Fingon, though he could not see his face as it was hidden behind his hair. “Thank you for returning our horses. Celegorm wants to thank you himself if you will have him,” Maglor offered, changing the topic of the conversation entirely. Fingon nodded.

 

Maglor walked towards the hall doors. Pausing he turned to look at Fingon, a strange light in his eyes. “Nelyo was captured by Morgoth’s creatures. We know not whether he was killed or is held captive.”

 

Fingon’s eyes grew wide. But he was dead! Had believed him gone for all these years. Fingon’s hands curled into fists. He did not turn to face Maglor, could not face him. Fingon heard Maglor leave the hall and another set of steps enter: Celegorm.

 

“Findekáno?” Celegorm queried, noting that Fingon did not respond.

 

Fingon turned to look at Celegorm. “Tell me what happened to Maitimo. All of it.”

 

The icy fury in Fingon’s eyes bore witness to Fingon’s turmoil. He would hear all of it and Celegorm would tell it. Celegorm sighed. His people were tired. Morgoth’s forces were constantly checking them at their borders. “Very well,” Celegorm answered and relayed the tale of how Maedhros went to meet with Morgoth, was betrayed and captured by Morgoth. Celegorm told Fingon of the missive that they received to surrender to Morgoth and he would in turn release Maedhros.

 

Maglor listened from outside the Hall, heard the desperation creep into Fingon’s voice as he questioned Celegorm, accused him of cowardice for not saving their eldest and beloved brother. Celegorm said nothing in rebuttal, feeling much the same as Fingon did, but had his hands tied by the will of the Fëanorian King and council.

 

Fingon stormed out of the Hall and pausing to stand in front of Maglor, Fingon spat on the floor in front of him. Maglor winced but stood his ground unwilling to look down in shame. Fingon’s eyes were ablaze, his internal Song pulsating outward into the space around them. Fingon called out to his people and they rode away with their horses and into the evening.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon’s sword clamored on the cold stone floor of Fingolfin’s Council Hall, echoing through the empty room. He could not remember warmth, could not recall words spoken that belonged to his life, but seemed like they belonged to another. Slowly his eyes focused on the empty throne room, taking in the colors of the banners that hung from the high ceilings. They retained their original splendor but that seemed a crime to him for those banners of the Houses that crossed the Grinding Ice were the only things that survived intact.

 

He was alive. He was sure of it.

 

)()()()(

 

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I seem to remember that Tuor gave the name "Rainbow Cleft" to the place or if it was named that prior to him. My memory is probably wrong on this!


	8. The Hero’s Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d. Forgive the mistakes and clunkiness.

 

**Chapter 8: The Hero’s Journey**

 

Terror. Fingon had first understood this emotion when his grandfather had been slain. There had been the terror of the Ice, knowing that the grinding of the ice would signal death. Over time, that terror had turned to horror. Fingolfin’s host had succumb to it. It was a terrible blow to have a world view shattered. The Noldor went from being the center of their universe to a cold knowledge that in the scheme of a larger world, the elven was not central. Their Creation story became linked with the knowledge of their demise: the utterly cold fact of a world without elves.

 

Morgoth was cunning, understood the epistemological breaking endured by the Noldor. Morgoth wielded the theater of horror, demanding the depraved and corrupted slaughter of life. From the burning of bodies to the evisceration of the whole into parts- flesh, matter, limbs, guts- the word barbarism had new meaning post Exile. They were writing, discovering, experiencing a world anew.

 

Maglor shuddered. What more can you do to the dead if you have already killed them? To witness this brutality for elves was beyond the seeing of the thing, it was a visceral assault on their senses. For Maglor, he felt it more keenly than most, being so attuned to the Music. Morgoth’s brutality reached beyond the flesh and into the notes. Maglor had gathered that the hunger he first saw in Fingon so many years ago was horror- a sentiment, a state of being that Maglor had not quite understood then. How things had changed for them. Fëanor’s death had been a terror to witness, but Morgoth’s monstrosity swallowed them and those around them, leading them into the heart of horror.

 

But what also worried Maglor was that the elves too could exact horror. _Father_ , Maglor spoke to his Fëanor, now beyond, perhaps in the Halls of Mandos. _I understand what you knew then._ The Noldor were but a reflection of Fëanor, the greatest among them. They could achieve cosmic brilliance, but by that same token they could also be possessed of the power to incite and inflict horror. It was a terrible revelation.

 

“Why did you tell him?” Curufin demanded, interrupting Maglor. Curufin sat himself down at the same table Maglor had attempted to share a meal with Fingon.

 

Maglor spared Curufin an annoyed glance. He was used to Curufin’s insistent interruptions. They came often.  What he was going to say to Curufin would possibly, most likely enrage him, but Maglor did not have the patience to censure himself. As King, he could not. “Because I see in him a hunger that just might save our brother.” Maglor saw this when Fingon revealed he knew that Maitimo had not burned the boats, witnessed the flicker of something in his eyes.

 

Curufin growled, “Nelyafinwë is dead,” he declared using Maitimo’s formal name.

 

Maglor leaned forward to face his brother, as he had done with Fingon. “What if he is not?”

 

“Then send our armies to rescue our brother!” Curufin cried out. Both camps retread the same well-worn arguments. They were eating themselves from the inside, knowing where they had failed and unwilling to face that failure less they admit defeat.

 

“An army will not save him,” Maglor retorted, his voice dropping in tone. He stood, kingly and mighty. “A single man might.”

Curufin laughed. “Do you really believe that Fingon is mad enough to do this? Can do something none of us can?” There it was again, judging the worth of one House against the other.

 

Maglor’s voice grew soft and he let himself drop the king and be a brother. “A fool’s hope,” Maglor admitted, his shoulders sagging. Curufin sat back in his chair, waiting for his brother to explain himself. “I know,” Maglor confessed, “that such a feat is fantasy, but in my madness, I am prone to believe it.”

 

Curufin grunted. Maglor could conjure their father and speak from the space that should have been occupied by their father, but it came at a cost. It did not for Curufin, for the two were most alike, but not Maglor. Maglor was not weak, but he had never been stern and harsh like their father. The crown required this and Maglor gave himself to it; had to if they were going to survive.

 

Maglor reached for his harp, understanding he needed to sooth his own nerves with music. There was no saving Maitimo, dead or alive. He was gone from him for all time. Even in death, Maglor believed they would not be reunited.

 

Curufin sat back. Listening to Maglor sing was a sort of healing and an opportunity for grieving.

 

Maglor sang of a people utterly changed, a people of exile.

 

)()()()(

 

Finrod had ridden beside Fingon in silence, had observed when Fingon stormed out of the Fëanorian throne room, chased after by Fingon’s attendant. Finrod was engaged in tense conversations of his own, as always with Carnistir. They had been arguing about who would patrol the farthest Northern reaches of Hithlum. After the attack on Fingon at the Firth of Drengist, the elves would have to increase their patrols in the northern mountain passes. Both groups were stretched short, and Carnistir had been arguing that Fingolfin’s people should take up these patrols as it was Turgon’s move that left them more vulnerable. Finrod understood Carnistir’s argument, but he was more worried that the two were becoming increasingly divided in ways that did not bode well for their survival.

 

On their return to the settlement Fingon had hastily dismounted, walking away from the others in the company. Finrod followed Fingon’s path into the great hall with his eyes. He would not follow. Whatever Maglor and subsequently Celegorm had shared with Fingon had unnerved him. While they were all more prone to emotional turbulence, Fingon was more unraveled than usual. Whatever it was, Finrod would bide his time and speak with Fingon. These were the things they did for each other, it seemed all too often. The Noldor Princes revealed themselves to be brave, yes, but also undone by the new order that built itself around them and in spite of them.

 

Finrod waited for Fingon at the baths, knowing that their visit with the Fëanorians and their subsequent patrol had left Fingon bone tired. Finrod felt it. Slowly he removed the soldier’s gear: leather vambraces and other leather armor. He peeled away his under shirt. It was full of grime and clung to him, wet with his own sweat. Finrod kicked off his boots and ripped off his trousers. He was impatient, needed to submerge himself in the healing waters.

 

Finrod sighed contentedly the moment his foot stepped in the pool. The heat of the pool steamed around him as he submerged his body. The ritual was repeated by others. Some came later wanting to first fill their bellies with food. Others had already found their corner of the pool to relax and wash away the Journey’s grime and weight.

 

After a while Fingon entered the baths, stripping away the soldier’s gear. Finrod kept his eyes fixed on him, communicating with Fingon in that uniquely elven way, that Finrod would have his ear whether Fingon liked it or not.

 

Fingon allowed himself to exhale deeply as he sunk into the hot water next to Finrod. Laying his head back on the smooth stone, Fingon’s eyes closed. Finrod would let him be momentarily, but sooner than later he would have to speak to Finrod.

 

Fingon spoke up. “You wish to speak with me.”

 

“I do," Finrod replied, his arms stretched out on the gentle, sloping curve of the stone. The ends of his hair floated on the water, the gold catching the candlelight that lit the baths.

 

Fingon opened his eyes, submerging the back of his head so that his hair would be slicked back and out of his face. Wiping the water away from his eyes, Fingon turned his attention to Finrod who was studying him closely in that way Finrod was known for. It was unnerving for many, but not for the Finwions. It was a trait they all possessed. It came from power and status, having the ability to allow their examination to pierce and perceive others below them in the order of the elven world.

 

“Will you speak of what Maglor and Celegorm revealed to you?”

 

Finrod was not dancing around with words, choosing directness. Finrod knew something was disclosed to Fingon.

 

“They want the question of Kingship resolved. There has been an ultimatum.” While this was true, Fingon would not share the question of Maitimo. On his ride back to their encampment he had made his mind up to go in search for him. Whether Maitimo was alive or dead was a matter of the order of Kingship. And more pressing, Fingon dared believe that he could find him and bring him back alive, understood that just maybe, Maglor desperately clung to this as well.

 

Finrod frowned. Fingon was not willing to speak to him of all that transpired, but there was also truth in his words. “And what of Celegorm. You two seem to be getting along better.”

 

“I am thankful he offered us help is all,” Fingon asked. “Is that forbidden?” he sarcastically accused Finrod.

 

Finrod laughed in response, both amused and frustrated by Fingon’s unwillingness to engage. “Many things have been forbidden to us, but our desires are larger.” Finrod was provoking Fingon, knowing that in anger he might be more vulnerable.

 

Fingon narrowed his eyes. “I see it in you too. You desire your own kingdom. Like my brother,” he accused, willing to follow Finrod where he wanted.

 

Finrod’s smile evaporated with the steam that rose. The water subtly rippled around them. The energy of the elven fëa was palpable at times, especially in times when elves allowed it to be, and amongst themselves they allowed it to serve as another avenue of communication that lent weight to their words.

 

Finrod stood. “You act with impunity and yet you believe you have the right to criticize me?” Finrod angrily replied to Fingon. Finrod’s muscles rippled with tension, the water droplets running down his sinewy form. Finrod smiled, a devilish thing, that if one saw without context would remind one how beautiful Finrod was, but Finrod too was changed. “Brother, tell me that these were not your own desires, that this imperial desire stirred your heart for I remember your words.”

 

The fractures were growing wider, bolder.

 

Fingon bit his tongue. Of course, he had shared these sentiments. And he could not accuse Finrod of what he accused Turgon for Finrod took to his duty seriously to protect their people. Fingon accused Finrod for something that had not yet come to be but would.

 

“Fuck off,” Fingon muttered, defeated by Finrod.

 

Finrod sat back down in the pool, satisfied. This time his laughter was ethereal, less heavy with power. “It is inevitable that we will all seek our own domains,” Finrod spoke to the heart of the matter. “It is our destiny,” Finrod breathed, filling his words with enchantment of a prophetic nature. Finrod’s eyes held steady on Fingon, willing him, pulling him to admit what the story had been about, in a way, all along.

 

Fingon could feel Finrod’s magnetic energy lapping gently against him, soothing him, pulling him. It was Fingon’s turn to laugh. “Enough!” he half shouted slapping down the water near Finrod to splash him.

 

Finrod splashed back at his cousin. After a few splashy retorts and allowing laughter to soothe, Finrod leaned back onto the rocky bench under water. These arguments were common place between them.

 

“I gave a good tongue lashing to Turgon,” Finrod admitted. “I understand his desire, but I like it not. I feel terrible for it.”

 

“I do not want to be parted again,” Fingon admitted, speaking the root of their turmoil.

 

Finrod sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to will away the deep-seated fears he too had. “Too many partings,” Finrod admitted.

 

Fingon reached out and touched Finrod’s face. “Aye, brother, forgive me for my attitude. I know you share my struggle.”

 

Finrod was startled momentarily. When Fingon touched him, he sensed something like a decision, like a stone that had been pushed down a hill and was picking up momentum.

 

Fingon sensed Finrod reach into him. Pulling back, Fingon averted Finrod’s touch, but Finrod probed more, choosing words as his weapons. “What did you and Maglor quarrel about?”

 

“The usual,” Fingon answered, knowing he could not reveal what he found out about Maitimo. Finrod would be too keen and guess Fingon’s heart, had clearly sensed something in him.

 

Knowing Finrod had similarly engaged Carnistir, Fingon turned the topic of their conversation to speak of their patrols of the Northlands until Finrod decided it was time for him to eat.

 

“I take my leave of you,” Finrod said politely but the impish grin on his face betrayed otherwise.

 

“I will be taking dinner in my quarters. I have no mind to fraternize tonight,” Fingon replied.

 

Before leaving the baths Finrod looked back to Fingon. “I have not finished interrogating you.”

 

“I know,” Fingon lazily groaned, leaning back on the stone ledge, eyes closed.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon stared at the stars. The heavy mists sent out by Morgoth had been cleared by a westerly wind from the sea. A cold beauty clung to their brilliance. He was leaving…to save him. Maybe he believed he might save himself, but Fingon dared not admit that. Perhaps it was a crossroads. He could choose to be present or to be distant like the stars above.

 

The heart of the galaxy circled above him, purple, silver and blue colors clustering, waiting to welcome new life. Elven sight reached far into the universe, but through song, elven senses reached deeper, to feel the deep thrum of life emanating from its center. Constant. Eä’s heart was comforting and yet it reminded Fingon of the fractures that splintered families, friends, Houses. Fingon loved Finrod, but their tense words were common in this life lived on edge. They needed to fall off the abyss or find sturdier ground. Fingon’s choice would push them in one direction. Which one, he did not know.

 

Fingon heard footsteps approach him. Fingolfin came to stand next to his son. Fingon acknowledged his father with words, “I often wonder what is beyond the stars and in the spaces between them.”

 

“Eä is unknowable,” Fingolfin reminded Fingon, hinting at the melodies familiar to them. While the Noldor were great astronomers Fingolfin understood that Fingon’s question was metaphysical, a question of what would, in the long road of Time, be of the Eldalië who were tied to Arda that would inevitably fade like the stars they tracked above.

 

“Father,” Fingon whispered, his decision weighing heavy on his heart. “I love you still,” he spoke, saying things he needed to say. He had never stopped loving Fingolfin. For Fingon, though, the person he now was, needed to claim the new stakes he inherited: different ways to love and be.

 

Fingolfin answered. “My love for you has never wavered.” This was also true. Fingolfin was steadfast, unwavering in many regards. It was why he would be King. It was why, despite all the anger and resentment his own children might harbor for him, they could also fall back on their love for him. Fingon would understand this one day when he too would have to make a decision for a child not yet come to be.

 

Fingon shook his head, acknowledging the depth of a parent’s love for their child. “Forgive me for my shortcomings.”

 

Fingolfin wrapped an arm around Fingon. “My valiant son, you have met this world with bravery. Do not recriminate yourself for the sins we all carry.”

 

Fingon smiled, leaning into his father. Fingolfin kissed his son’s brow. The fragile present was like the wing of a butterfly, translucent and ephemeral. Fingon took his father’s hand and kissed it. “Good night apa,” he spoke, using a childhood name for his father.  

 

“Good night, son,” Fingolfin replied, leaning in to breath the scent of him in. In turn Fingon took in the familiar scent of his father- warm, inviting, and comforting.

 

Fingolfin watched his son walk back to his rooms and disappear into a doorway. He was strong again. And yet his heart was filled with a foreboding, but he could not keep Fingon away from danger. That part of their relationship had passed long ago with Fingon’s childhood. Instead, Fingolfin turned to look at the stars above. They circled above him, the heart of the galaxy moving across the night sky, steadfast and constant, but inevitably to an end.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon looked back onto the camp. The lights of life glittered like fireflies. He was filled with an intense longing. Fingon understood, in this moment, that he was forever leaving behind a life…and if he returned, it would be to another. Yet again. This was the choice he made, that they had all made. Though he was bitter and angry still, he understood that those lights glittering upon the lake and horizon needed more than what was going to come to be. Now was the time for great deeds, but he did not feel heroic. He felt incredibly sad. With every step he took from the camp, he mourned for who he had been: young, brash Findekáno, who filled a room with his deep reverberating laughter. He mourned the Noldor, for he was leaving them behind knowing that even if he succeeded he would bring to them a terrible thing. No matter, without this choice, they would not last the season.

 

And yet there was some Grace that had not abandoned him. The harp on his back was proof of this. In different times, Fingon would have prayed, but he no longer believed in such vanity for it was self-worship to ask for such interventions, and it was arrogant for the Valar to concede to such supplications. They had all been prisoners of the absurd, so he believed. But a Song, a Song, Fingon smiled to himself, was more than a prayer. It was their ability to express Life, to sing their fëa into being. It was faerie and Fingon would nevermore forget that they too carried that story in their bones.

 

He followed the River Sirion. Though hurried, there was an easiness to this part of his journey that he knew would not last, but he relished the sounds of the river, the breeze in the trees, the meadows of flowers that would open up to him and delight in the presence of the First Born. He journeyed to darkness but Endórë opened herself to him, reminding him he was more than the son of a throneless King, more than the Noldor. Most simply and elegantly, he was a child of hers, the likeness of a flower or perhaps a deer, and some of the birch, and the black feathers of the crow, and strong like the wolf. Eldar brother she whispered and Fingon traveled as in a dream, along currents of stars and flowers, the river a Song. He lent his voice to his travels, quietly, unwilling to be found. She covered him in her own darkness, more quiet and gentle than the heavy, stinging mists sent out by Morgoth. There was power in Endórë and Fingon felt enchanted, understood she was filling him with Power for the dark road that waited ahead. Fingon took from the waters, plucked a petal here and there, and sometimes the flower to smell. With his hands he plunged into the currents of life around him. And like a lifetime before, flowers sprung at his feet. Yet for the Eldar such enchantment was also melancholy for the story was about partings and death. Endórë in her vastness and beauty also mourned these lost children.

 

When Fingon awoke he was in the foothills of the Ered Wethrin. The Mountain greeted him, bidding him pass, a warning upon its snowy peaks, thundering above. Power rippled within him and Fingon tended it, secreted it away in a soft song he had learned from the river. His harp proved to not be mere vanity and more elven whimsy, spirit and crafty. Fingon hoped he would remember these lessons. Alas, he did not have time to philosophize for the mountain grew dark and shadow-filled. Morgoth was set against them. The rolling darkness Fingon encountered would surely meet his people in the noon time. On this morning, though it seemed like a somber evening, Fingon made his way through narrow passages between rocks, following the river until it disappeared underground. He climbed and scaled the large mountain though the passages were hard to come upon. Fingon found himself retracing steps, trying out different paths. The Shadow thwarted him at every turn, making sheer rock appear as passage and blanketing paths in heavy mist.

 

This took him many weeks and while he did not encounter evil creatures outright, the shadow was set against him, until one evening he felt the ground beneath him begin to descend. A large heaviness was eased from Fingon’s heart. His path cleared before him and with elven agility and the light of the moon that broke through the mists, he quickly found his way back to the river Sirion that emerged back out from its underground passage it had disappeared into.

 

He approached the site of his father’s future fortification: Eithel Sirion, the mother of the River Sirion. Below him stretched out the Ard-Galen, the grassy plains that stood between him and Thangorodrim. He would sleep here until morning, hoping some light would accompany him on his descent to the plains below. Before turning over to rest Fingon caught some fish, cooking them over a fire. He gathered berries and other such foods he could take with him. He’d managed to not eat much but knew he would need food for what lay ahead.

 

Morning greeted him, Arien daring to break through the foul mists that emanated from Angband. A great sense of awe descended upon him. Fingon took a moment to embrace the beauty of Endórë. Below him the tall grasses of Ard-Galen waved in the gentle breeze of the afternoon. Even here, on the precipice of Morgoth’s lands, Fingon was reminded of something beyond him, a life that exceeded his capacity to understand. And that made him glad. Tears fell freely. Oh life, he thought, what paths have I chosen that seem so insignificant in the presence of your creation.

 

He allowed his fëa to stretch beyond his skin, shake away the shackles of the body, to be truly elven. The currents of his spirit caught the scent of green things, of deep, dark and earthen things, and the stone at the root of the mountain. From his feet he traveled out to the roots of the plains. The roots of the grasses were still strong and deep, but there was also a sense of trepidation. They spoke and whispered a storying, a telling, quite like the Stars above, but from deep, deep within the earth itself. _Beware!_ They whispered but there were no words. _Darkness and Death,_ the growing things pulsated, a song not song but older and wiser. The shape of it like the insides of the womb: a heartbeat, static, a crackling sound. The language of Endórë was beyond Song: Primordial rhythms, like the heart of the universe.

 

Fingon collapsed back into himself, the voices around him overwhelming him. Did he dare continue? But he also felt a familiar prickle at the edge of his senses. He was alive. Maitimo was alive. Fingon was sure of it. Felt it in his bones the way the roots felt the earth and the sky above. He was alive. Fingon forged on.

 

The tall grasses of the Ard-Galen greeted Fingon, encircling him in gentle embrace as they waved in the gentle breeze. They reached tall towards the sky. From the Sindar, Fingolfin’s people had learned that with the appearance of Arien, the grasses had grown tall, the height of an elf. Indeed, strange new life was called into being by the new cycles of the sun and moon. It was the Song of Eä manifest. But little sun now reached through the mists sent out by Morgoth. Already the grasses were yellowing, unable to drink the light of Arien.

 

Thangorodrim grew taller, more menacing as Fingon advanced. It appeared as a wound against the horizon at once dark and foreboding while flashes of fire and unknown green mists lit the cliffs. The mountain was speaking to him, taunting him. _Do you dare pass Elf? Do you dare give me your life? I devour life,_ it threatened. 

 

Fingon closed his eyes, shaking away the whispers, remembering that the mountain was also stone, stone like any other, but it was enchanted by Morgoth’s menace, raised by him. Still stone, Fingon reminded himself, still rock and earth, still of those things that were a part of Ea. Not good or evil, and even beyond capacity for Valarin will.

 

The foothills of Thangorodrim. Fingon crouched down to inspect the land, reached down to feel the earth. He dug his fingers into the moist soil. So very gently and circumscribed he allowed tendrils of elven magic seep into it. No response, but Fingon was not deterred. He dug deeper, risking himself found out, but he had to know. There it was! A note, a pause, like a deep breath: an awakening from slumber. Fingon saw grasses on a hill. It chilled him to the bone, though he could not make sense of why a vision of a grassy hill under a bright noon sky would cause such dread. Come what may, he said to the earth and the seeds dormant in its bosom, it gives me great comfort to know you will once more grow.

 

 _Beware the line of Kings!_ The gasping life that rumbled awake from slumber warned the future King.

 

Fingon quickly retracted his hand from the earth. Whatever prophecy, whatever it was that spoke to him on this journey, was here with him too; he was not alone. Fingon stood up, his elven sight scanning the face of the mountains before him.

 

He walked on, shrouded in mists. If animal life was here it had fled for Morgoth had dug his own hands into the earth, ripping it in two. Chasms of broken earth spewed forth foul gases and green mists. Fingon could barely tolerate to look within so great the stench and stinging to his eyes. His throat quickly grew raw form breathing in the putrid air.

 

Through the darkness he found a path. Orcs. he could hear them ahead. He retraced his steps but could not find another path into the mountains. Out here in the East it seemed his direction was fated, so he forged forward. There was at least twenty of them, but if he was quick and cunning he could fell ten with his arrows, four with his sword-the element of surprise still on his side. The last six he could take on, the wall of the mountain at his back. For once luck was on his side: they did not have arrows. He only hoped their cries would not bring more enemies closer. 

 

The orcs fell quickly as he plucked away at his bow sending his arrows speeding into the narrow crevasse. Drawing his sword, he spun and cleaved a couple of orcs clean in two and drawing his sword back he took two more heads. What had been beauty was now wrath. His sword hummed with its own song and he took two more orcs without hassle, their guts spilling out. Finally, four were left and they raged, running at Fingon, but Fingon was graceful and he too ran at them at the last moment skidding under them while his sword sliced at their guts. Two were left. One turned to run and the other threw its blade at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword caught the blade and with his next motion he stabbed the beast. He chased down the other creature and slit its throat.

 

The orcs were many on his path but Fingon found nooks and crannies to hide, ledges to leap upon and pass unnoticed if the odds were against him. He killed as many as he could for he believed he’d have to return this way if he found Nelyafinwë. It was also terrible deeds he committed these hours that turned into days of Fingon hunting in those mountains. A darkness grew in him, but not so dark that he did not cry for the younglings he came upon and massacred. Kinslayer, his own thoughts betrayed him. But Fingon could not be paused by remorse. Whether it was day or night he could not tell, but the green mists and fires of Morgoth and the dense fog hid him well. Fingon smiled. Morgoth’s own shadows allowed him safe passage as he made his way deeper into Thangorodrim.

 

He traveled on and came upon no more orcs. He was deep inside Morgoth’s territory. Shadows whispered and threatened but Fingon was of the Eldar and he fought back with his own Song, his own story, and kept going forward. It was madness what he was doing. Surely the orcs had alerted others that there was an enemy in their midst. Without a thought for himself, Fingon traveled further and further into mountain.  A sickness descended on him, a spell of dark magic, threatening to consume him. It crept into his chest and rung his lungs like wet rags until he could no longer breath. Fingon crawled on the ground, gasping, willing himself to live, until a slumber like death came upon him and he lost consciousness. How long he was lost to the world he did not know but when he awoke his body was sore and he was starved, but Fingon’s body was cleverer, had been trained by the Grinding Ice to survive bitter hunger.

 

It was afternoon, revealed by a break in the mists.  He could see the steep crests of Thangorodrim before him. Nothing else. No Maitimo, no path. Before him a great stone wall punctuated what seemed to be the end of the road for Fingon. This is the moment Fingon would remember as his bravest: the moment he took his harp and laid his hands upon it, tears wetting his face not from sadness but from utter frustration and anger. Trembling he sang the song of the River, of the plains, and it took him to a childhood song of innocence. Bravely he sang louder, allowing some semblance of Power to fill the notes, allowed them to reverberate in the stone. His voice sounded clear and strong. He gave himself to it, closed his eyes, knowing he was tempting his own death. The earth rumbled beneath his feet and even in the stench of Angband Fingon found a tendril of beauty: A sound like the cry of a broken thing. Fingon paused, hearing nothing but the rumbling of the fires around him. Again, Fingon raised his voice, this time with greater strength, challenging Morgoth to come meet him on that mountain side. He heard it again. A voice. Fingon lowered his own voice- a voice answered him! A voice he knew intimately.

 

Maitimo! Fingon sang out and Maitimo answered. They called out like this, Maitimo’s voice leading and Fingon following, finding hidden passages in the rock until Fingon scrambled his way up a precarious ledge that crumbled beneath his feet. With much care he followed it until it opened into a large flat area. It was then that Fingon saw him on the steep mountain side far above him. Maitimo was nailed to the mountain side. He had to look away.

 

Inside his head, Fingon could hear Morgoth. _See? See my banner? But it does not dance in the wind. Why is it not resplendent, like the colors of Fëanor and Fingolfin?_

Fingon stifled a sob. Maitimo was hung, a broken thing, no more than bloodied flesh. Fingon could not contain the moans that escaped him. They rolled through him and Fingon experienced a most wretched sorrow that could only be born from the depravity inflicted on his friend. Utter evil. Maitimo’s body hung on the cliff side- Morgoth’s hideous banner. If Fingon did not understand Morgoth’s evil, he did now. But this too made Fingon more angry and guilty. Was it not enough to witness Elenwë fall into the icy abyss of Helcaraxë? Was it not enough to see the charred bodies of children? Was it not enough to see his own men and women cloven in two by Morgoth’s armies?  Fingon found descent into a place even beyond horror.

 

Fingon called out to Maitimo, “Tell me how I can get up to you!”

 

“There is no way,” Maitimo answered, his voice paper thin, parched. It hurt to speak. “Spare me,” he begged of Fingon. “Your arrow,” he begged. Fingon could not answer him, but Maitimo managed to scream and beg: “Please!”

 

“I cannot,” Fingon found the courage to cry out, desperately surveying the cliff for a route to Maitimo. Cruel destiny to bring him to his feet and leave him with no recourse but one.

 

“Please,” Maitimo’s voice begged. It was a cruel thing to force him to beg, such anguish and pain echoing in his words, but Fingon needed to find a way. Broken and with what seemed final words, Maitimo begged, “Please!”

 

Fingon was desperate, whatever hope he had managed to cultivate, was now utterly destroyed. He laughed like a madman, like Fëanor had once. He believed he could reunite the Noldor, bring them together.

 

Whether he returned or died too on this mountain, Fingon had one choice before him. Save Maitimo the only way possible. Wiping the tears away from his face, Fingon steeled himself and brought forth his bow. He reached behind him to his quiver that had been emptied of many arrows and found the arrow with eagle feather fletching. Quieting his breath, stilling his body, Fingon raised the arrow, sighting his friend above. Their eyes met and Maitimo’s eyes closed, managing to turn up a side of his mouth into a smile. Fingon breathed into the arrow and he drew the arrow back, crying out: “O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!” Not a prayer as some would later claim, but a semblance of the story that had been Fingon’s journey to this place upon Thangorodrim.

 

A great wind came upon him, unsteadying Fingon’s hand. A light shone bright and from the heights a great eagle descended. Its great wings threw Fingon back, so great was the force of the air they generated. Fingon watched in awe as the great creature landed. Its head poked back and forth in that way of eagles, inspecting its prey. His bright eyes studied Fingon. Fingon stood, tentatively raising his hand to the eagle’s breast. Cautiously, Fingon laid it upon the soft feathers.

 

Thorondor was the bird’s name and he spoke to Fingon. “A prayer young son of Nolofinwë?”

 

“A plea,” Fingon answered casting his eyes back in the direction of Maitimo who watched with the eyes of one utterly defeated. “I have no prayers left,” Fingon’s croaked, broken in a different way than his friend.

 

“Then I truly pity thee,” Thorondor answered.

 

Fingon found the courage to answer: “Whether it is deserved, I dare not ask.”

 

Thorondor turned his head to Maitimo. Did he deserve to live? Turning his attention back on Fingon, Thorondor revealed, “The River and flowers whispered of your Journey.”

 

Fingon pushed on, “Then I dare ask you help me save my friend.”

 

The bird bobbed its head back in Fingon’s direction. “Fingon the Valiant, I will bear thee to your friend, though I do not know if he deserves my pity.”

 

Fingon did not answer, for none of them deserved pity. The great bird extended its wing and Fingon climbed upon it. Pity or not, Fingon was going to save him. Thorondor beat his mighty wings and up they flew until Fingon found some footing near Maitimo, but only enough for one foot. Fingon kept his other foot on Thorondor, balancing on the moving bird and the toe hold on the mountain side. Fingon did his best to ascertain how Maitimo was chained upon the cliff side. The currents of wind created by Thorondor’s wings managed to kick up dust, but there was no other way.

 

“It is hopeless,” Maitimo croaked, while Fingon managed to pass his hands over the shackle from which Maitimo was hung. Fingon tried a million ways in the span of minutes to try to pull the shackle form the stone. It would not budge.

 

“Please,” Maitimo moaned, “I cannot bear another breath.” 

 

“Then I will free you however I can,” Fingon spoke, steeling himself for what came next. Remembering the Ice, Fingon pressed his hand over Maitimo’s arm. Steadying himself on the slight ledge and Thorondor was quite a job in itself as the bird could not hold steady such was the physics of the situation. Fingon ripped out the leather thong that tied his hair together. It would have to do. Fingon tied the leather thong around Maitimo’s forearm, wrapping it as tight as he could. Maitimo screamed out in pain.

 

“Forgive me,” Fingon begged.

 

Fingon tumbled, but Thorondor caught him with his wings. “Almost,” Fingon breathed desperate to free Maitimo. “Steady,” he breathed, Thorondor’s keen eagle eyes fixed on Fingon. With one hand Fingon took hold of Maitimo’s upper arm, grabbing it with such force that Maitimo cried out in more pain. Fingon flinched but he had little choice.  Swiftly Fingon drew his sword raising it above his head. With elven precision, Fingon allowed his body to fall forward with the sword as he brought it down against Nelyafinwë’s arm, just above where the shackles caught his wrist. He trusted that Thorondor would do his best to catch them as they fell. Elven steel was strong and sharp and Fingon’s strike was clean. Maitimo fell, released from his shackles. Fingon threw his sword aside, closing his arms around Maitimo. Holding onto him they struck the cliff side, but Thorondor was quick to catch them.

 

Gently, the great eagle brought them to the ground. Maitimo groaned. His eyes rolled back in his head. The pain was so great he lost consciousness.

 

“I will save you,” Fingon breathed, not a prayer but a statement of will. This time he took his leather belt and wrapped it more securely as a tourniquet around Maitimo’s arm. Rummaging through his pack he found his healers’ kit.

 

“Here it is,” Fingon announced, unsure if he was speaking aloud for the eagle or to calm himself. Fingon pulled out a vile of a coagulating herb. With his teeth he ripped off the top and carefully allowed a few drops to drip down into Maitimo’s throat. Maitimo gagged. Fingon expected this pulling the vile back, less he spill some. He did not want to waste the precious elixir. Satisfied he had given Maitimo enough, Fingon opened up another vile, a pain reliever. He did his best to get it down Maitimo’s throat. This proved to be harder as Maitimo kept retching at the unfamiliar feel of liquid in his dried and scorched throat.

 

Fingon gently wrapped Maitimo in his cloak and checked to see if the tourniquet had done a good enough job stopping the bleeding. It would suffice, Fingon surmised.

 

Fingon scrambled to pick up his sword. Having safely sheathed it, he picked Maitimo’s frail frame up in his arms.  “Will you bear me, us, home?” Fingon asked the great eagle, but there was no _us_ : no longer an _us_ in the way the word hinted at relationships and friendships of long past.

 

Thorondor lowered its great wing and Fingon settled upon Thorondor, securing Maitimo in front of him. Thorondor’s great wings beat once more and they ascended into the skies.

 

Fingon sang, conjuring rivers and flowers, recalling Endórë’s magic, pulling the chords of her song into healing, filling Maitimo with it. Thorondor cried out, his voice adding to the Song. Fingon was brave and relentless. Stretching out and beyond he pulled tendrils of music from the clouds, from Morgoth’s mists, and tended them with beauty, willing Maitimo to live. Most of all, he found hope, a hope he thought had completely abandoned him. Not a prayer. Not a penance.

 

An enchantment, a melancholy storying of the lives they had led, a fire deep and fierce, bold and everlasting. Fingon was creating futures, tomorrows. Perhaps the story of Findekáno and Maitimo was no more, no _us_ in that story, but that was not an end, though the path of Thorondor’s flight marked a direction that nevertheless found Doom.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon the hero. Fingon the Valiant they would say and sing and remember.

 

But we know better: Fingon the Fey. Fingon the Kinslayer.

 

And what of the man that would henceforward be known as Maedhros? He would be the Dispossessed.

 

TBC….

 

 

 

 


End file.
